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:v 



A WRITER OF BOOKS 

IN HIS GENESIS 



WRITTEN FOR AND DEDICATED TO HIS 

PUPIL- FRIENDS REACHING 

BACK IN A LINE OF 

FIFTY YEARS. 



BY 
DENTON J. SNIDER 



ST. LOUIS, MO. 

SIGMA PUBLISHING CO. 

210 PINE ST. 

(For Sale by A. C. M'Clurg & Co., Booksellers, Chicago, Ills.) 



Ki 



/ii^'^l 



/■^ 



A WRITER OF BOOKS 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER FIRST— Early Years ... 5 

I Migration 10 

II Early Schooling 15 

III The Second Home 24 

IV The Village Schoolmaster . . 31 

V Other Beginnings 41 

VI The Year 1856 60 

VII The Break 71 

CHAPTER SECOND— At College , . 81 

I President Finney 90 

II The Negro Blacksmith .... 99 

III Struggles 106 

IV Literary Studies 116 

V Political Oberlin 131 

VI Last Year of College .... 148 

(ill) 



iv CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER THIRD-In War Time ... 160 

I At Camp Mansfield 169 

II At Camp Cleveland 225 

III As Recruiting Officer .... 244 

IV At The Front . 255 

CHAPTER FOURTH-At St. Louis . . 294 

I The Philosophical Society . . 315 

II Emerson and Alcott in St. Louis 329 

III The University Brocki^eyer . . 343 

IV Brockmeyer's Spiritual Genesis . 363 
V In The High School 399 

VI The Parting of The Ways ... 420 

VII Rounded Out 441 

Appendix I The Historic Johnny Apple- 
seed 447 

Appendix II Clarence, A Drama . . . 456 

Appendix III Poems, 1864-1866 . ... 512 

Appendix IV The Soul's Journey . . . 544 

Appendix V Literary Bibles .... 629 

Shakespeare at Stratford 631 

Appendix VI Pedagogical Address . . 655 

Appendix VII List of Printed Works . 665 



A WELTER OF BOOKS. 



CHAPTEE FIRST. 

EARLY YEARS. 

In tlie old family Bible stood the following 
inscription: Denton Jaques Snider, born 
January 9th, 1841. On the opposite page in 
the same book it was stated that the parents 
of the six children whose births were there 
recorded bore the names of John R. Snider 
and Catherine (Prather) Snider, both being- 
born and raised in the neighborhood of Clear 
Spring, Washington Connty, Maryland, 
which lies on the Potomac. The husband 
was of German origin, of good plebeian stock, 
belonging probabh^ to the old Pennsylvania 
migration from Teutonic fatherland; the 
mother was of English descent, and claimed 
an aristocratic connection, both through 

(5) 



g 'A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

kinship and wealth; indeed one member 
of her family has been heard to declare 
that a drop of Norman blood had trickled 
down the centnries through the ancestral 
veins of my grandmother ^s people, the 
Jaqneses. Now this first paragraph of this 
new book would not be complete unless it 
were mentioned that the aforeborn Denton 
Jaques Snider is the Writer of Books, con- 
cerning whom the present book is about to 
be written — by whom? By none other than 
by the said Writer of Books himself. Or, to 
speak out the matter more plainly, if not 
very modestly, it is I who am going to travel 
in writ a little arc or perchance a little 
cycle of my own existence to see how it looks 
to myself, and I shall be glad, my reader, to 
take you along as companion. The first per- 
sonal pronoun as a kind of herald or master 
of ceremonies has now made its entrance and 
given its bow, and it will not fail to maintain 
its part to the end, with a fair degree of self- 
assurance, we have no doubt. 

The relatives of both houses, the Snidera 
and the Prathers, were scattered along each 
side of the Potomac in considerable and ever- 
increasing numbers, on the one hand reaching 
down into Virginia, and on the other up into 
Pennsylvania. They seem to have been in 
the main a sturdy, quiet, agricultural folk. 



EARLY YEARS. rj 

who never attracted much notice from any 
body, not even from themselves. 

It is not known— at least I do not know— 
from what part of Germany my father's or 
from what part of England my mother's 
ancestors came to the New World. Neither 
side seems to have produced a genealogist 
interested in tracing the origins of the off- 
shoots of his family. Only one little domestic 
document ever came under my eye, and that 
too by a sudden spark of chance. There was 
in the household, it seems, an old tattered, 
rather mysterious piece of paper in German 
script, which no member of the family could 
read. It had been carefully treasured by an 
aunt with a somewhat superstitious venera- 
tion, though she did not understand its con- 
tents. I had never heard of it. For some 
months I, when a boy, had been studying Ger- 
man and was flinging bits of it around the 
house, with an air of superiority, I suppose, 
when one of my sisters challenged me to read 
the ancient document which she knew of, but 
I did not. The aunt soon produced it from 
her carefully locked little box of family heir- 
looms, and even went so far as to say that 
I should possess it if I could read it. I soon 
deciphered it, not without aid. of grammar 
and dictionary, and found it to be the baptis- 
mal certificate of Johannes Schneider, famil- 



8 • A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

iarly known to us all by liis Anglicized name 
of John Snider, our grandfather, the date of 
his birth being 1776 at Hagerstown, Mary- 
land. Thus the Declaration of Independence 
and my grandfather were born the same year 
in adjoining States. He died when I was 
some four or five years old; I recollect of 
being present at his funeral, and of trying to 
climb by myself the graveyard fence, from 
which I tumbled down on a sharp rock, get- 
ting for my earliest act of self-assertion a 
gash in my forehead, whose scar I carry to 
this day over my left eye. 

The rather peculiar given name, Denton 
Jaques, which I bear— at least some people 
have qualified it as such— was that of an 
uncle of my mother. I never saw him, but 
he has transmitted to me in it a kind of 
stumbling block on the threshold of life. It 
was pronounced in all sorts of ways by neigh- 
bors, and among Shakesperians it has asso- 
ciated me with the melancholy Jaques, not 
a very agreeable companion in temperament. 
The whole name has rather a mixed sound, 
showing both a French and a German con- 
stituent, both modified, however, by an Eng- 
lish accent. So let it stand here at the 
entrance with its little foreshadow: stat 
nominis umbra. 

It may be added, with a feeling of some 



EARLY YEARS. 9 

relief that neither side of the family, as far 
as my knowledge reaches, has ever produced 
a person of distinction, a man or woman 
much exalted above the common level of 
humanity. Looking backward in time, no 
lofty peak is discernible in the ancestral pedi- 
gree, much less a line of mountainous heights 
springing heavenward and bounding the hor- 
izon of the past. No great excellence can be 
seen and no great lack of it ; no illustrious son 
of light and no mighty scoundrel. The pater- 
nal and maternal streams do not seem to have 
ever separated themselves markedly from the 
vast ocean of the People, but to have flowed 
with it onwardly toward its goal. Both have 
been borne by it, not leading it, in its earth- 
girdling sweep westward; both belong with 
the other millions, to that unique ethnic cir- 
cummigration of the globe, which has been 
going on so many thousands of years, and 
which is usually called Aryan. So I was born 
an Aryan emigrant — that is my farthest 
stretch in genealogy. 

From this rather remote flight into ances- 
try it is time that I should turn back to the 
present and tell where I was born. On a farm 
about a mile southwest of the town of Mount 
Gilead, Morrow County, Ohio, the record 
reports that I first saw the light on the day 
above given, The house has disappeared, 



10 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

but I recollect that it stood along a stream 
of water called the Whetstone, running 
through a grove of sycamores, whose leafy 
tops, mounted on flecked and shaly bodies, 
still flutter pleasantly in the memory. 

I. 

MiGEATION. 

It is evident from the foregoing facts that 
a fresh migration of my ancestors has taken 
place. The scene has shifted from an old 
State to a new, from a Commonwealth born 
of Europe to a Commonwealth born of the 
American Union. In this difference of polit- 
ical origin will arise a difference of political 
character, which time is to develop. The 
Atlantic watershed with its face toward the 
East is left behind; the great dividing bul- 
wark, the Allegheny range, is crossed, the 
emigrants debouch into a different world as 
they descend from the mountains into the 
valley of the Ohio, whose stream runs west- 
ward, opposite to that of the Potomac. Na- 
ture herself faces them about in their march 
toward the future. 

This migration is recorded in writing as 
well as preserved in memory. But the previ- 
ous migrations of the two families are his- 
torically lost; at least they are not known 



MIGRATION. ^ll 

to me, and were not known to my father, for 
I asked liim about them. He declared him- 
self ignorant of the road by which his family 
had come into Western Maryland before the 
Eevolntion, from the Lord knows where. 
Originally, of course, his stock was German, 
as already indicated, but he had completely 
lost the ancestral speech. As a boy I tested 
him once with my " Dutch '^ spelling book, 
and he could not pronounce me a word. 

There is no doubt, however, that the chief 
cause of the migration of the family from the 
South was slavery. One day in the early 30 ^s 
grandfather Snider having disposed of his 
property in Maryland, set out across the 
mountains with his children, their mother 
having already passed beyond. He had sev- 
eral brothers who also quitted their Southern 
home and settled in Ohio. All this was but 
a drop in the great migratory current which 
was then flowing out of the Slave States into 
the free North-West. The movement of the 
People had been at first toward the fruitful 
land and' genial clime of the South and the 
Southwest, but the Kepeal of the Missouri 
Compromise in 1820 showed that slavery had 
not only fastened permanently its clutch upon 
the Southern States but that its leaders were 
bent on extending it to new territory. Tben 
began that significant deflection of the vast 



12 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

flocks of hardy home-seekers, who turned 
away from the sunny South to the colder 
North, populating it and developing it with 
amazing energy and rapidity. Into that vast 
migratory swirl of humanity to the West 
which lasted several generations, first sweep- 
ing Southward and then bending around 
Northward, the Sniders plunged and were 
borne on with the moving myriads, uncon- 
sciously to the fulfilment of a great national 
purpose, which rose to the surface in the 
Civil War. 

Both of my grandfathers were slaveholdoj's, 
and it is understood that both were favorable 
to emancipation. One of them, however, re- 
mained in the old State, unwilling to break 
rudely the strong ties of kindred, of business, 
and, doubtless, of class. The other went 
forth into the wilderness and there built a 
new home. These two different characteris- 
tics may have descended into their common 
grandchild. My father also seems to have 
felt the migratory spirit of the family, yea, 
perchance, of the old Aryan race, and so 
resolved to take another step Westward, not 
a very Large one, from Ohio to the neighbor- 
ing State of Indiana. There he settled on a 
farm not far from Columbia, Whitley County, 
after a stay of some months in the town. I 
was then about five or six years old, and still 



MIGRATION. 13 

to-day strange fleeting cloudlets of memory 
of that journey rise unbidden and then van- 
ish. The exploits of our dog Trusty in swim- 
ming streams and chasing rabbits have left 
the most vivid impression on the child ^s 
mind; nor has the rough jolting of the cordu- 
roy road ever been smoothed out of my brain. 

In that Indiana town I went to my first 
school, very unwillingly, I imagine, as I rec- 
ollect being switched to the school house and 
in it also. The printed page, however, must 
have exercised some early fascination over 
me, since I had already learned at home to 
spell and read a little on my own initiative. 
The country was still new, some Indians ling- 
ered in the locality; there I saw my first big 
painted Indian, his squaw and also a 
pappoose. 

An unhealthy season set in, my mother fell 
sick and died, leaving fi\e small children, of 
whom I was the third. This sad event took 
place in the year 1847, and left the family 
ever afterwards more or less uncentered. I 
recollect that she was an anxious mother, she 
worried over the health of her children in 
the malarious climate of Indiana, and wished 
to return to Ohio and even to Maryland. We 
lived in a log cabin with a single room, as 
did most of the pioneers in that locality; 
when her illness continued the children were 



14 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

distributed among the neighbors who were 
kind. At last came a summons to her bed- 
side, it was late at night, the dying mother 
made some sign to see her children; after a 
time she opened her eyes, and with a pro- 
longed vivid glance, which I still remember, 
she gave us her last look of love, then turned 
her head and passed away. That look remains 
with me still, and is the most precious, indeed 
almost the only memorial, I have of her 
earthly presence. 

The family was broken up, the central 
spirit being gone; my father soon found that 
he could not make himself its center, and my 
eldest sister was still too young for such a 
task. He soon resolved to return to the old 
homestead in Ohio. Well do I recollect the 
day we started; the wagon, covered with an 
awning and filled with household goods, 
waited in the yard with horses hitched. The 
five children, ranging from ten years of age 
to two, were hoisted one by one into the vehi- 
cle with its white arcade of muslin overhead, 
the team started and away we sailed, with 
happy, happy hearts, though without the 
mother. The sun shone as the horses trotted 
down the hillock away from the cabin home, 
which soon disappeared from our look for- 
ever. In an hour or so the clouds gathered 
and hid the sun, the rain descended, and by 



EARLY SCHOOLING, 15 

the time we readied Fort Wayne, we were 
thoroughly wet. But in the evening we were 
lifted out at an inn, and dried before a blazing 
fire on a large hearth. So ended the first day. 
After a week or so we drove up to the old 
farm house on the Whetstone in which all of 
us children had been born, and to which we 
had returned. 

We had indeed come back to our natal 
home, but with a great domestic chasm, being 
now a motherless, uncentered family which 
soon began to fly asunder. In a brief time 
;we had to leave the old farmhouse, as it was 
in possession of others. My father went to 
town and tried housekeeping a few months, 
when he gave it up. We children were scat- 
tered and knocked about in a variety of 
ways; lifers discipline had begun with some 
severity. In general we found shelter with 
good people, but they had their own families, 
and we necessarily remained outsiders. 

II. 

Early Schooling. 

In my seventh year I started definitely to 
school, former attempts having been failures. 
Even now the effort was not a concentrated 
one, and could not be, in the nature of the 
situation. I had no home strictly, belonged 



16 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

nowhere precisely on the earth, and, of 
course anchored myself chiefly in the clonds. 
This is a period— from the seventh to the 
eleventh year— when the character is largely 
employed in shaping itself. I was trained by 
life not only to self-reliance but to self -intro- 
version, and dwelt chiefly in an imaginary 
world of my own architecture, which some- 
times partook of classic sunshine and some- 
times of Gothic gloom. I often brooded, and 
I recollect of dallying with the thought of 
suicide. Once I sat fishing on the banks of 
the Whetstone, when my domineering fan- 
tas}^ tried hard to push me into the pellucid 
stream with its softly persuasive ripples, and 
actually did jump me into deep water, but I 
swam out, with one future result at any rate, 
namely this book, a sentence of which you, 
my reader, have been brought by some stroke 
of fate just now to read. 

During the aforementioned years I was 
tossed pretty evenly between two quite dif- 
ferent sorts of education, that of a private 
school and that of farm life, each of which 
had its own separate locality and environ- 
ment. 

Some ten miles south of Mount Gilead lived 
a Quaker by the name of Jesse Harkness, who, 
with his wife, Cynthia, kept a small boarding 
school, having also a goodly number of day 



EARLY SCHOOLING. 



17 



pupils from the neighborhood. The peda- 
gogic pair had started their first little school 
near the old homestead on the Whetstone, so 
that my father knew them and concluded to 
put some of his children under their tuition 
as well as their domestic care, especially as 
they had no children of their own. Their 
building was the largest in that neighbor- 
hood of farna houses, and made quite an im- 
posing appearance, being set on a gentle 
eminence, which was baptized with the classic 
but ambitious title of Mount Hesper, from 
which height, seemingly, the grand illumina- 
tion of the West (Hesperia) was to take 
place. The center of the establishment was 
undoubtedly the mistress of the household, a 
Quakeress bearing also a classic name, Cyn- 
thia, the well-known designation of the Greek 
deity Artemis, who could likewise be Eoman 
Diana, or even the Moon, as we catch in 
Shakespeare's little jet poetic, ^^the pale 
reflex of Cynthia 's brow. ' ' So we had, on the 
outside at least a kind of heathen temple pre- 
sided over by an Hellenic goddess, but on the 
inside all was strict Quakerdom into which 
not even the rather colorless heresies of Elias 
Hicks dared intrude. 

In fact the most horrible memory that 
haunts me still of this period is my forced 
attendance at Quaker meeting, in which we 



Ig A WRITER OF BOOK^. 

boys, four or five of us, had to sit together 
without a whisper, playless, laughless, nearly 
motionless, all in a state of incipient rebel- 
lion, but terrorized by the fierce hawk-eye of 
Jesse, who sat and watched us from his cor- 
ner. There was no preaching, singing, pray- 
ing—no external service to draw the attention 
of youth; all had to be internal, even in the 
undeveloped child, except when some old 
member rose, the spirit moving, and recited 
a verse of scripture after which he would sit 
down again, usually smoothing with his hand 
his roach, which was not allowed to curl up. 
Such a short break in that awful silence was 
always welcome to me as .a most exciting 
episode, which by no means took place at 
every meeting. When we came home, Jesse 
would giv^ us a little round of ear-twingeing 
and nose-tweaking for our sins, not very 
severe but perceptible; my offense generally 
was an unconscious smile which would not 
wear off by much lecturing and some drub- 
bing. I think I may say that here began that 
distaste for going to church which has accom- 
panied me through life. At Oberlin I had a 
similar experience, of which something will 
be said later. 

The physical diet was spare, and the spirit- 
ual diet for boys yet sparer. No stories, no 
fairy tales, no fiction; the whole imaginative 



EARLY SCHOOLING. J[9 

gift of the child— the most active at our time 
of life— was openly suppressed but secretly 
ran riot. One of the boys smuggled the for- 
bidden novel into our group; it was devoured 
furtively by most of us and was going the 
rounds when Jesse caught it up one day and 
flung it into the fire. He was still living when 
the Freeburgers came out, but I did not dare 
send him a copy. One young fellow brought 
a memorized stock of ballads, which he used 
to sing to us in great privacy, for music also 
,was a forbidden thing; he could chant the 
whole of John Gilpin and make little rhymes 
of his own, to my boundless admiration as 
well as intense desire to be able to perform 
the same marvelous exploit. One of his petty 
squibs, made up on myself, I can still recall. 
In fact not long afterwards I began to rattle 
off little jingles on my own account and the 
habit is not yet wholly broken. (See Johnny 
Appleseed's Rhymes.) Moreover in the 
school course I picked up a good deal of 
poetry from Ebenezer Porter's Rhetorical 
Reader, as well as from Goold Brown's Eng- 
lish Grammar. Thus a little rill of imagina- 
tion and music trickled through the dry sands 
of Mount Hesper, almost in spite of itself. 

Still the Quaker discipline was not without 
its decided advantages. Besides being sternly 
practiced in the virtues of obedience, vera- 



20 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

city, economy, I was made to breathe an at- 
mosphere of study, of aspiration to learn, of 
information. Jesse liad traveled, and had 
his store of experiences; men of education 
would often stay at the house on their way 
to and from the yearly meetings of their sect, 
which formed a line of Quaker settlements 
from Eichmond, Ind., through Ohio to Cleve- 
land. This line had another distinction be- 
longing to the time: through it ran the un- 
derground railroad on which fugitive slaves 
had a free passage to Canada. I recollect 
well the excitement produced by the case of 
Eichard Dillingham, a young Quaker of the 
neighborhood, who went down to Tennessee 
and was arrested for enticing negroes from 
their masters. At Mount Hesper I first com- 
menced to acquire the study habit, which has 
clung to me as the dearest friend through 
joy and sorrow. There was a small library 
in the place, and the book now began to tell 
its wonders to the Writer of Books. 

"When I was not at Mount Hesper, I went 
to a farm some nine miles distant, which was 
owned by a great-uncle of the name of New- 
son, familiarly known to the kinship as Uncle 
Joe. Here work was the watchword from 
sun-up to sun-down; the printed book van- 
ished into the background, and Nature un- 
rolled her pages of green and gold to the dili- 



EARLY SCHOOLING. 21 

gent hand of the toiler. On the farm the 
chief gain for me was something which no 
school can give— a first-hand knowledge of 
the primal cultnre, which was agricnltnre. 
I was too yonng to perform the heavier tasks, 
but I saw and took part in them all : plowing, 
sowing, reaping, the care of domestic animals, 
including several kinds of fowls ; also I got to 
know a number of the wild denizens of the 
neighboring forest. Physical phenomena, the 
wind, the rain, the snow, heat and cold, are a 
more intimate part of the farmer's existence 
than e^ en of the villager's. I felt this cliange 
as a return to Mother Nature, from whom the 
school necessarily estranged me. Still it was 
in itself a school whose lessons I have never 
forgotten, and which is the unconscious sub- 
strate underlying both language and thought. 
Particularly the American farmer has a 
unique life of his own. In general he pos- 
sesses his special homestead, with a portion 
of the glebe fenced off around the same; he 
dwells not in a hamlet of peasants (as is most- 
ly the case in Europe), but is himself the 
baron in his own castle with lands attached. 
The soil in no sense owns him, but he owns 
the soil ; he is truly individualized, a free citi- 
zen of a free State, and socially the most in- 
dependent of men. On the other side, he is 
also very dependent, having to rely on the 



22 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

bounty of the seasons; God's gifts are his 
chief necessity, not man's, as he regards the 
situation; thus he is easily religious and con- 
servative. It is true that this old American 
farm-life is being broken up by steam and 
electricity, with their cheap and rapid transit, 
which turns country into city and city into 
country. Also the unparalleled development 
of agricultural implements is making inroads 
upon the transmitted methods and usages of 
the farm. I hold the statement to be true 
that mightier advances have been made in 
the instrumentalities for cultivating this, our 
earth, during the last half century than took 
place during the thirty or forty centuries 
since our ancestors emerged from their no- 
madic condition. Sixty years ago I was a 
farmer's boy; since then I believe the im- 
provement in husbandry to have been greater 
than that during the entire lapse of time from 
the earliest Aryan crop of grain. I saw pret- 
ty nearly the same agricultural implements, 
and pretty nearly the same manipulation of 
them as had come down from immemorial 
ages. I may add one reflection: this marvel- 
ous evolution of food-raising machinery 
springs from and is required by American 
institutions, and may well be regarded as a 
phase of that new stage of civilization which 
is arising in the Occident. The freer the man, 



EARLY SCHOOLING. 



23 



the more obedient Nature becomes to Ms 
liberated hand. 

Still the farm today remains a great edu- 
cator, giving that which no school, no town, 
no city can impart. It carries man back to 
his first cultivation, the cultivation of the soil, 
which is connected with the settled home and 
with the domestication of plants and animals, 
and above all with human domestication. The 
domestic grains are still sown, the domestic 
animals are still reared, on the farm; and they 
are the results of uncounted ages of evolution. 
With this primeval occupation of man, lan- 
guage, mythus, folk-lore, poetry unfold, 
whose earliest hints may be felt in tillage. 
There is at present an educational tendency to 
send town children to the coimtry to observe 
the processes of husbandry; better still would 
it be if their hands were set to work in certain 
occupations of the farm. 

Anyhow at Uncle Joe 's I acquired the rudi- 
ments of the basic processes of agriculture, 
which, I must repeat, has laid the foundation 
stones of all other culture. I went to the har- 
vest-field, raked the sheaf, cocked the hay, 
drove the team, fed the cattle, did a hundred 
chores, and thus became a living part, though 
a small one, of that very lively unit, the 
American farm, which might be called the 
original cell of our social organismo Primar- 



24 . ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ily onr country is a vast cluster of farms and 
farmers whose energy and character are the 
well-head of the nation's energy and char- 
acter. It is generally stated that the city 
recuperates largely its human supply of brain 
from the same sources whence it derives its 
bread and meat. I may add that I always 
hailed with delight the transition from 
Jesse's to Uncle Joe's, chiefly because on the 
farm I obtained better food and more of it. 
Boys will complain, but the frugal Quaker 
really underfed us, though the famine- 
pinched Hindoo would have reveled in our 
thin gravies and butterless bread as Heaven- 
sent luxuries. Nor should it in justice be for- 
gotten that Jesse received a very small com- 
pensation for his services and supplies. 

But the time has arrived when both these 
kinds of training, the boarding-school and the 
farm, are to drop out of my life forever. I 
had reached my eleventh year when a new 
shift of environment as well as of discipline 
took place. 

III. 

The Second Home. 

My father now resolved to bring his scat- 
tered children together into a home once 
more. They were growing up parted from 
him and from one another, and were forming 



THE SECOND HOME. 



25 



habits and attachments, which might soon be 
too strong to break. Young as I was, I recol- 
lect his talking to me about the change which 
had long been his cherished dream. With 
some such design he had married a second 
time, but this attempt turned out unsuccess- 
ful. I saw my stepmother but a few weeks; 
she was sympathetic and kind-hearted, but 
was already ill with what soon showed itself 
a fatal malady. Not long after she died; he 
and we children found ourselves where we 
were before— dispersed to the four winds. 

At last about 1851 my father began to see 
his way to a reconstruction of his home and 
took a dwelling in the town of Mount Gilead. 
My eldest sister was then toward fifteen years 
old, and my second sister somewhat less than 
two years younger; with such help the new 
household seemed possible. Still he found us 
a centrifugal set after so many years of 
separation at the most impressionable ' time 
of life. I have never deemed my father a 
strong character, nor did he possess a robust 
constitution; he was kind-hearted and con- 
scientious toward his children, but his disci- 
pline was lax ; I felt at once the loosened grip 
and began to fly off after my own sweet will. 
Now and then, however, he felt compelled to 
box the ears of the whole group of us impar- 
tially for some little domestic brawl— an act 



2G ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

of momentary despair on his part, of which 
he would at once repent. I have no doubt our 
second home would have gone to pieces in a 
year, if we had not been reinforced at the 
critical moment by just the needed person- 
ality. My father's sister, affectionately called 
by us Aunt Mary, a childless widow whose 
husband had recently died, came to live with 
us and at once centered about herself the 
recalcitrant units of our family. Not only 
this she did through her unusual will-power, 
but she became the domestic heart as well; 
she mothered her brother 's orphaned children 
anew, and made herself the fountain of their 
hopes in life as well as of their aspiration 
for improvement. She had but little educa- 
tion herself, but the value of education she 
seemed to appreciate better than anybody I 
knew of in my youth. It must be confessed 
that she was more ambitious for the chil- 
dren under her charge than my father was; 
but she controlled him, and through her I 
could reach him, and get his consent to take 
a fresh step in advance, with which she never 
failed to sympathize. 

Mount Gilead was then a village containing 
less than a thousand people. It possessed a 
small but active life of its own, social and 
commercial; it was the shire-town of the 
county with court house and some educated 



THE SECOND HOME. 



27 



professional men, lawyers, doctors and 
preachers, and especially one schoolmaster, 
who still looms up in my memory above them 
all. The main interest of the town, however, 
centered in politics. The presidential election 
of 1852 was at hand; a majority of the people 
belonged to the Democratic party as against 
the Whigs, but the balance of power was held 
by the Freesoilers, then a young and very 
active organization to which my father, 
though a born Southerner, had attached him- 
self. From him the son naturally took his 
earliest political bias. I can still recall vividly 
the campaign of 1852. I at once became an 
ardent politician; the boys of the village 
divided according to the leanings of their 
parents and sometimes had little scrimmages 
over the respective candidates for the Presi- 
dency. A great day it was for our party and 
for the town and especially for me when 
John P. Hale, my Presidential candidate, ap- 
peared and made a speech in the grove along 
the Whetstone. Salmon P. Chase, then a 
Senator from Ohio, was also present and ad- 
dressed the meeting. The other two political 
parties never brought any men of equal dis- 
tinction to that little speck of a town. These 
forceful orators, along with their cause, made 
a strong impression upon my boyish mind; 
they aroused sympathy for the enslaved, and 



28 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

appealed to the law of the human heart ; they 
rather turned away from the written law as 
laid down in statute and constitution. After 
a vague, dreamy fashion, I already felt the 
battle between the two laws, and the same 
conflict was lurking more or less distinctly in 
every soul of the community. To be sure the 
people divided into parties which outwardly 
affirmed one side or the other; but internally 
every man had some trace of the time's scis- 
sion which was destined to grow deeper and 
deeper till the final mighty clash. The town 
resounded with political discussions in the 
stores and on the street corners; sometimes 
though rarely the doughty antagonists came 
to blows. Once the whole community, includ- 
ing women and, of' course, the boys, seemed 
to range themselves on two battle lines, when 
a leading lawyer struck a leading preacher 
for calling him a liar in a heated argument. 
Thus Mount Gilead had a little war of its own 
already in 1852, dimly foreshadowing the 
later big war in a kind of germ. A disputa- 
tion on the street would quickly gather a 
crowd of eager listeners, who would divide 
at once and show their respective sympathies 
by applause and derision. It was certainly a 
period of great fermentation; looking back- 
ward I have to think that it was the early 
preparation of the people for the approaching 



THE 8EC0ND HOME. 



29 



conflict which everybody forefelt even when 
the tongue was silent or said nay. But many 
were outspoken and expressed the common 
presentiment in gloomy prophecies which 
might be openly pooh-poohed, but secretly 
would produce a responsive echo or per- 
chance a shiver. 

The Democratic candidate, Franklin Pierce, 
was overwhelmingly elected. This result gave 
the finishing stroke to the Whig party, which 
had already committed suicide logically, and 
had no further ground of existence. The din 
of political argument ceased after the election 
in the town, which certainly needed a rest. 
After a time of recuperation, religious discus- 
sion between the members of the fiYe or six 
different churches of the place took its turn 
in exercising the minds of many of the vil- 
lagers. But some, a goodly minority, would 
take no part in this diversion. The young 
people, and the old, too, had their social enter- 
tainments, through which ran unfathomable 
rivalries between persons, cliques, religious 
denominations and political parties. It was 
a tangled variegated skein, that life of the 
town in which every individual was a thread 
more or less significant ; I might liken it to a 
vat of eels, each of which was turning and 
winding, now on top, now underneath, 
through the entire wriggling mass, into which 
I, a little eel, had been precipitated. 



30 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

At any rate I had made a new transition; 
I had passed from a confined school-life after 
the Quaker pattern, and from a taskful farm- 
life with its closeness to Nature into a more 
complex town-life with its larger human asso- 
ciation. I soon shared deeply in the soul of 
the little community, in its ambitions, in its 
pleasures, in its gossip, in its loves and hates, 
for it knew both— not neglecting its class dis- 
tinctions, for it had its small set of patricians 
(or those who deemed themselves such) and 
consequently its plebeians. Some similar 
classification seems to spring up in every 
petty village as well as in old Eome. But 
while my townlet had its own round of throb- 
bing existence, it palpitated strongly in re- 
sponse to the conflicts of State and Nation. 
Its dominant institutional character was 
political, in deep acord with the keynote of 
the time, which I, though a mere boy, began 
distinctly to hear and to recognize. Yea, I 
would fain believe, on retrospection, that a 
faint world-historical pulsation was thrilling 
in this almost microscopic cell of universal 
history. The great crisis of the age was 
already budding and swelling toward the 
flower, and that most sensitive of all photo- 
graphic plates, the human soul, though it 
might be the humblest, took the impress of 
it with a dim foreboding of the mighty event 
now on the march. 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. ^l 

While these occurrences and premonitions 
were surging- hurly-burly through the town 
and through me, another thread began weav- 
ing itself into my life. Even an elementary 
education I by no means yet possessed; but 
now the educator appears in person— I can 
truly say, my first real educator, who not only 
drilled me furiously in the rudiments, but was 
able to see and to seize my inner bent, also to 
develop and to direct it on its future way. 

IV. 

The Village Schoolmastee. 

A corpulent, short-statured, rather flabby 
bunch of man, shuffling along in low shoes 
whose heels would clatter on the pavement or 
floor, with heavy drooping features which, 
however, would easily light up with all sorts 
of grimaces on provocation, was the most 
unique personality in the town, its acknowl- 
edged wise-man or savant, the schoolmaster 
of the place, popularly called Old Eazz (ab- 
breviation of Erasmus). He would draw down 
the corners of his mouth, often gilded with 
tobacco juice, and tell one of his funny yarns 
to the crowd when school was over, and he 
was loafing at the corner drug-store; but as 
soon as the nub popped out, he would start to 
rolling with laughter inside— never a titter 



32 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

broke outside— and his stumpy globular fig- 
ure would sliake and undulate like a bowl of 
jelly. Whereat the response of his audience 
was at once forthcoming, often with the cry: 
^ ^ Give us another. ' ' 

Erasmus G, Phillips, who left his individual 
stamp indelibly upon my years of boyhood, 
was an original character, who possessed a 
collegiate education — he was from Granville 
College— and had been trained to the legal 
profession, but by hap or mishap had been 
transformed into a rural pedagogue. Teach- 
ing, however, must have been his native trend, 
as it was certainly his true vocation. His 
school was indeed of the old style, but con- 
ducted after his own peculiar manner. In 
pedagogy the new order had begun to make 
itself felt, but had not yet reached Mount Gil- 
ead, though it was on the way and will arrive. 
Meanwhile Phillips bore sway, and I came 
under his tuition and personal influence, with 
the birch always hanging over my head but 
never quite descending upon my jacket. I 
owe him much, but if I were called upon to 
point to the one thing which he left most com- 
pelling with me through life, it would be the 
aspiration to know the antique world. He 
first roused and developed into a strong and 
enduring passion my classical bent, a gift 
which he also possessed. One day he came 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. 33 

up to my desk and put into my hands a Latin 
grammar, assigning as my first lesson the de- 
clension of Musa. "There/' says he, ''take 
that, it is time to start." The circumstance 
was, indeed, a veritable turning-point in my 
whole career. At home my father good-na- 
turedly but skeptically scoffed at this un- 
heard of deviation in the family, while Aunt 
Mary sym]3athized and uttered a prophetic 
word or two for my encouragement. Outsid- 
ers came to hear of the fact and teased me 
about that most useless study of Latin, for in 
a small town everybody knows everybody and 
everybody's business and more, too, and be- 
sides wants to take care of it. Boys would 
jeer at me with their so-called hog-Latin, but 
I held on. Never shall I forget the moment 
when Phillips getting impatient of the mo- 
notonous paradigms, flung me headforemost 
into translating an Esop's fable from the 
Latin. It was too large a leap for me, but the 
old teacher was so eager that I should pluck 
the fruit that he could not wait for the inter- 
mediate steps. It was hard work, but with 
a good deal of help from him the task was 
finished and written out— my first transla- 
tion, and I have been translating ever since 
from one tongue or other. His action affected 
me deeply; I felt that he would gladly have 
transferred to me his knowledge in mass, if 



34 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

he had been able. This delight in giving 
away his mental acquisitions, this impulse 
to impart what he knew to those who did not 
know revealed the born teacher. 

Moreover Phillips opened to me the mythi- 
cal wealth of the classic world. From him I 
first heard the tale of Troy, which he told in 
his own original way, making over for him- 
self the ancient fable. He was a good story- 
teller, especially successful in humorous anec- 
dote and on this side was the popular nar- 
rator of the town. At present he seemed 
dipped in the very spirit of the old Greek 
mythus; and he excited me by it to such a 
degree that for days it would not quit my 
imagination, so that I too fought with the 
heroes under the walls of Troy. I believe that 
then I received the impulse not to rest till I 
knew those old books about the Trojan War 
and made them my spiritual heritage. We 
were walking homeward from the Eound 
School-house on the hill-top, when he sud- 
denly fell into this peculiar mood, which I 
had not seen in him before. He became very 
animated, he would gesticulate with corre- 
sponding play of the countenance ; after wad- 
dling a few steps he would stop in the street 
for the purpose of acting as well speaking 
some important scene or heroic exploit. At 
last we reached the business part of the vil- 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. 35 

lage and sat down on the stone steps of a 
store, where he told me about the stratagem 
of the wooden horse, out of which the Greek 
heroes secretly sli]3j)ed and took the city, 
slaying the Trojans right and left without 
resistance, "for," says he, with a peculiar 
twinkle in his eye, while leaning over toward 
me and lowering his voice to a whisper, ' ^ they 
were all drunk." 

Now Phillips, the story teller himself, in- 
jected a little bit of his own life into this inter- 
pretation of Homer and Virgil. He was in 
the habit of going on a spree during vacation, 
never during the school-term; that was his 
weakness which the people excused on account 
of his excellence in teaching, and the more 
readily because many of them took a dram 
themselves. I recollect that I thought at the 
time : ' ' Well, that is a bit snatched from life. ' ' 
I believe that he intended me to include him- 
self among those Trojans. I had seen him in 
the gutter and, as he was quarrelsome in his 
cups, with black eyes, with bandaged scalp, 
with soiled and tattered clothes during and 
after his frolics. Once at the railroad station 
he gave three of us boys a bad fright by rising 
from a wool-sack on which he was lying be- 
spattered with tobacco-juice and vomit, and 
offering to flog the whole set of us, wlio were 
merely standing before him and gazing at him 



36 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

in silent awe. He probably dreamed that he 
was at school and that we were pupils in mis- 
chief. We took to our heels, in three direc- 
tions, but he threw up, and lying down again 
on his wool-sack went off into a snooze. This 
incident took place in vacation ; the next week 
school began, old Eazz was on hand as usual 
and the pupils, too. 

Such was the night-side of this unique man, 
which he always turned up to daylight outside 
of school-time. Eumor connected his intem- 
perate habit with disappointment in love, as 
he was unmarried and shunned the society of 
women. He belonged to no church and was 
silent on the subject of religion; Sundays he 
would stay in his school-house or loiter at the 
drug-store of Uncle Johnny Wealand. His 
parents came from Wales, but he had lost the 
ability to speak Welsh except in the matter of 
counting the numerals which he would rattle 
off with quips and facial contortions to the 
delight of young and old. He was proud of 
having been named after Erasmus, the great 
Dutch classical scholar of the Eenascence, 
who, he claimed, visited Wales and was 
brought into some relation with an ancestor. 
In his school he was a vigorous flogger of the 
old style, not by any means sparing the girls. 
But, as far as I recollect, he never gave me a 
blow in his life, though I once escaped a 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. 2>1 

sound thrashing by flight, running out of the 
open door as he was waddling after me with 
gad in hand. He sent for me, but my kind- 
hearted father would not force me to return. 
After a while I met my teacher on the street, 
he was very friendly and invited me to come 
back, which I did later with eagerness. > I 
believe he longed for me as much as I did for 
him. 

Such was the chief educational force of the 
town and of the neighboring country. He is 
still held in grateful remembrance by his old 
pupils in spite of his flogging, yea I have 
heard it declared, by virtue of his flogging. 
Many years ago, not long after his death, 
some of us proposed to erect a monument over 
his grave, but time has mercilessly rolled on, 
and all of that company, with one exception, 
now need monuments of their own. That 
exception is here trying to raise a little me- 
morial to his best teacher, who did that which 
the graded school of the present can do but 
imperfectly ; he seized and unfolded the indi- 
vidual bent of each pupil. Every boy of a 
special turn, while receiving a general educa- 
tion, was encouraged to develop on his own 
line according to his gift. Certainly I re- 
ceived from him m.y bent toward classical 
study, and he roused it not so much by drill 
in grammar as by a living presentation of its 



38 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

spirit in legend, history and PlutarcMan 
anecdote. There was a freshness and origi- 
nality in the man which made dry erudition 
send forth leaves and even flowers. The old- 
fashioned country schoolmaster has largely 
vanished with 'the pioneers of the West, to 
whom indeed he belonged; but on the whole 
he was a great benefactor in his way, and 
never failed to appear at the frontier settle- 
ments with his little stock of learning to 
illumine the outposts of civilization. In his 
field he was a Daniel Boone or better, a 
Johnny Appleseed, scattering the germs of 
the coming fruitage. 

Phillips, I ought to add, did not neglect in 
me a part of education which I was inclined 
to neglect : the mathematical. In mental and 
written arithmetic he gave a thorough drill, 
and in due time he pushed me up into algebra, 
which has remained with me to this day the 
unforgotten part of advanced mathematics. 
The other mathematical branches which I 
studied later at college dropped rapidly into 
the dark well of Lethe, from which I can 
not draw them up without a complete mental 
reconstruction of them in detail. The fore- 
going facts were intensely, almost painfully, 
verified just this present year (1909) by the 
emergency of writing a book which required 
a renewal of my ancient mathem^atical know!- 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. 39 

edge. The algebra I recovered at a glance, 
but the other branches could not be coaxed 
from their hiding place except by a fresh be- 
getting of them from the start. 

Still it must be confessed that the town out- 
grew old Eazz, and I outgrew him also. Mount 
Gilead began to feel the revolution in educa- 
tion which was then pulsing everywhere 
through Ohio. A large new school-house had 
been built which sheltered the whole school- 
population ; this had now to be graded and to 
be put into separate rooms of the one build- 
ing, under different teachers, with a principal 
over all. Better organization was the result, 
a better machine perchance, but with the ma- 
chine came a more mechanical character into 
the instruction. Doubtless such a system was 
an advantage for all, for the great mass, was 
more democratic; but it was not so good for 
the specially talented, for the born leader, 
who must also have their individual develop- 
ment. Such is still a leading problem of the 
educational organism: to teach the mediocre 
and in the same class to develop the gift of 
the gifted. It was understood that Phillips 
might have been principal of the new Union- 
school (as it was called) if he would quit his 
sprees and go to church, and, one old maid 
said, get married. But he refused to accept 
the new order and left town for a small vil- 



40 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

lage, where he could still be a free man and a 
free teacher, according to his own interpre- 
tation of freedom, and the ideal of his voca- 
tion. 

The point at which I had begun to feel the 
necessity of reaching ont beyond his instruc- 
tion was in the stndy of modern languages, 
which he did not know. Especially there had 
come over me a strange compelling impulse, 
possibly ancestral, to speak German, as if 
some old Teutonic ghost wanted to use my 
living tongue, and gave me no peace till it 
possessed me. I found an outsider to help 
me ; of course Phillips soon heard about it and 
could not conceal his jealousy. One day I 
met him at the drug store, when he began 
quizzing me. ^^What is hat in German?" 
''Hut/' says I. '^And footf' ''That is 
Fuss/' ''And goodtliingf'' " Gutes Ding/' 
was my answer. ' ' That 's enough, ' ^ he cried, 
and put on a look of disgust ; " I once studied 
German a little, but gave it up, as it seemed 
to me but a mispronounced and misspelt par- 
ody on English. ' ' Some years later during a 
visit at home from college, I chanced to meet 
him, when his first salutation was : " Good 
God, Denton, I suppose you can not talk Eng- 
lish any more. ' ' 

Phillips had the warm affectionate Celtic 
temperament, which rayed out passionately 



OTHER BEGINNINGS. 41 

on certain pupils ; indeed he had no one else 
to love, and he had to have an outlet for his 
strong emotions. I believe that I was for a 
while his favorite, but he soon found another 
when he saw me taking stretches beyond his 
limits. Doubtless the growing separation cost 
him more than one pang; but he was well 
aware that the best teacher is he who soonest 
brings his pupils to outstrip him at his best. 

V. 

Other Beginnings. 

During these years (from my 11th to my 
15th) other tendencies began to sprout in 
me which remained and developed more fully 
in later life. It was indeed a time of germi- 
nation of bents and their conflict for suprem- 
acy, a struggle for existence between the 
native aptitudes ending possibly in the sur- 
vival of the fittest. At this period our mani- 
fold inherited propensities seem to rise up 
from the dark unconscious underworld of the 
soul and to assert themselves; the result is 
a kind of natural selection out of the vast 
transmitted store of nature's gifts. Every 
child has probably the endowments of the 
whole race as its possibilities ; but only a few 
can ever be developed to maturity. Physi- 
cally he is already individualized at birth, 



42 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

but mentally he is to become so by education 
in its very widest sense. 

About this time a new interest which per- 
sisted in bubbling up to the surface against 
many obstacles was music. The town had 
several performers on the violin, or as they 
were called fiddlers — a popular name, but 
with a shade of contempt in it to most people. 
They furnished the music chiefly for the coun- 
try dances, and played a variety of jigs, horn- 
pipes, cotillions, waltzes, not leaving out the 
old Virginia reel. One of these artists offered 
to give me instruction, but my father sat his 
foot down firmly with a flat No! He had a 
low opinion of music generally, and a player 
of the violin in the family would be an indeli- 
ble disgrace to the whole kinship. His scorn- 
ful reply was : ^ ' Only niggers play the fiddle 
where I came from, ' ^ that is, from the South. 
My father could not help showing himself the 
born Southerner, both in speech and in certain 
social prejudices, his anti-slavery views not- 
withstanding. From his Southern breeding 
he retained his courtesy, even if a little formal 
on occasion. But I lost the opportunity of 
learning the most perfect of all musical in- 
struments, the violin. In its stead I went in 
debt for a flute, which I could take apart and 
hide in the woodpile; when he was away at 
business, I would practice in the barn. After 



OTHER BEGINNINGS. 43 

a while I surprised him when in good humor 
by playing a tune. But he could not suppress 
his derision, and exclaimed : ' ' Give us now the 
tune the old cow died on." Still I had won 
my point, I had learned to play a musical in- 
strument, though not of the best class, and I 
also acquired the rudiments of the science of 
music. Afterwards a piano came into the 
house chiefly through the assistance and pro- 
tection of AvLi^t Mary; but I could not profit 
by it, as I was about to quit home for college. 
My younger sister, however, had to endure 
many a contemptuous fling from the old gen- 
tleman for her devotion to her art. 

I have given this case because I regard it 
as typical of entire America in Music and in 
the Fine Arts generally. The original ele- 
mental source from which all excellence in 
poetry and all artistic supremacy is derived 
is the people. The question to be asked for 
finding out the possibility of a national Music 
is : Do the people sing — sing spontaneously, 
by an all-compelling necessity of uttering 
themselves melodiously? Most emphatically, 
No, the American people do not sing, and they 
rather contemn the one who does, often re- 
garding the musically inclined person among 
them as a little unhinged mentally. Of course, 
I do not mean certain classes in cities and 
towns that have imbibed foreign notions. I 



44 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

mean the real American people of the cross- 
roads, of the rnral school-house in which sing- 
ing ought to be but very seldom is, heard; 
the men of the million farms I mean, who 
make and uphold the political institutions of 
the country, who have fought its battles and 
are ready to do so again, who are in general 
the protoplasmic stuff which enters into 
everything national. These men do not sing, 
except possibly on Sunday at church they may 
indulge a few moments in the nasal whine of 
a hymn, which is unearthly, and, therefore, 
must be heavenly. I hold that the supreme 
musical problem of this land is, Can you make 
the people sing? Sing as the German people 
sing, from the humblest to the highest, on all 
possible occasions; sing as the Italians sing 
and thus bring forth a national music whose 
primal fountain is the folk-song, which can 
not be said to exist in America. In this way 
is created a vast popular reservoir of what 
may be called musical protoplasm, every 
speck of which is national or perhaps racial, 
too, and from which the nation's genius as 
musical composer draws, moulding it into his 
own ideal shapes and stamping them with 
his own individuality. That there is no such 
reservoir for the American composer is the 
unfortunate fact, and accordingly he has to 
go abroad not only for his training but for 



OTHER BEGIXXIXG8, 45 

his melodious material, for liis ultimate musi- 
cal themes, even if he plaster them on some 
American incident or scene. And what is true 
of music is more or less true of all the Fine 
Arts. Is there an original creative impulse 
in our people to express itself artistically? 
Very few signs of it, even if they be not 
wholly wanting. The American (to use an 
expression of Aristotle) is a political animal, 
not a musical, not an artistic, that is, the 
animal in him, the elemental part of his na- 
ture, does not spontaneously take to music or 
art in a creative way, but peculiarly to poli- 
tics; hence his State has become the wonder 
of the world, and it the world is going to 
adopt in the course of ages. 

Still I have to believe that this American, 
or I might say, Anglo-Saxon, incapacity for 
music has an- historic cause. The soul of 
humanity is naturally musical, and this in- 
born utterance has to be silenced by some 
past parah^sis in a people. The Anglo-Saxon 
and the German are of the same Teutonic kin ; 
long ago they dwelt together, sang the same 
strains and marched to battle chanting the 
same war- songs. But the one branch of the 
common stock has become the most hmeless 
people in the whole world, I believe, vrhile 
the other branch has evolved as the most 
tuneful — productively the most tuneful folk 



46 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

on this globe is doubtless the German of the 
present day. What caused such a surprising 
divergence in the same blood ? Leaving Eng- 
land itself out, we may glance at the English 
settlers of America from whom our leading 
spiritual traits are derived. These settlers 
were mainly of two groups: the Puritans of 
the North and the Cavaliers of the South, 
both of them unmusical. The Puritanic 
world- view smote to death music and all art 
with the heavy mace of religion, except some 
psalm- singing, of which it may be said the 
less musical the godlier. The aristocratic 
Cavalier would not, of course, practice any 
art; music especially he turned over to his 
slaves, who could sing and dance for him 
when he felt the need of some entertainment. 
Hence it is declared that the only original 
American music is found in the so-called 
negro melodies, and the most popular musical 
entertainment in America as a whole is a 
negro minstrel show. Even the white man 
has to blacken himself and turn darkey in or- 
der to express himself musically. Never shall 
I forget the utter disgust and despair of the 
best violinist I ever knew in St. Louis, who 
had recently arrived from the old country, 
when he was compelled, by the sheer neces- 
sity of getting some bread, to accept the high 
offer of vthe leader of a company of "Ethi- 



OTHER BEaiNNINGS. 47 

opian Serenaders" then playing with great 
success in the city. He received several times 
more money than he could get for his services 
in the best orchestra of Europe, -but he would 
not endure the degradation of his art (so he 
deemed it) ; accordingly, as soon as he had 
earned sufficient money for his purpose, he 
washed his face clean and hurried back to his 
native land, where he could exercise his art 
and still remain a white man. 

So the Puritan and the Cavalier, the mould- 
ers of the national spirit, though desperate 
foes on other lines, and destined to transfer 
their English battle to American soil, on 
which they will fight it out with untold outlay 
of blood, show a remarkable agreement, a 
brotherly unanimity, as regards art, and 
especially music. In these matters my father 
was, I think, a typical man, representing the 
average American consciousness, though with 
a decided Southern tinge in his social in- 
stincts, even if he was largely read in New 
England anti-slavery literature, and on this 
side partook decidedly of Puritanic moralism. 
Slavery doubtless emphasized the fact that 
the Southerner regarded music herself as his 
^'nigger," worth some money for the sake of 
diversion, yet rather too low for familiar as- 
sociation. The negro, however, has been set 
free ; but has music obtained a corresponding 



4g A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

enfrancliisement, I mean in its true home,, the 
folk-soul! Is it a free art, unfolding in its 
own right unto perfection ? In defense of my 
spelling, I may add that my father always 
pronounced the synonym of the colored 
brother with two g's, even when handing him 
money to flee toward Canada on the under- 
ground railroad. 

It was during these years that I first be- 
came acquainted with the story of Johnny 
Appleseed, which has haunted my whole life 
with a peculiar power of fascination, and I 
am not yet free of the spell. The image of 
the solitary wanderer going in advance of 
civilization and planting apple-seeds in pro- 
tected spots for the benefit of future genera- 
tions impressed itself upon me at once, so 
that I have not only held it in delighted 
memory, but have been driven to shape it in 
words at various times. I recollect of read- 
ing about Appleseed in a local history which 
gave a little account of the man and his pe^- 
culiar traits. He lived for some years at 
Mansfield, which is only a few miles from 
Mount Gilead, being the county seat of a 
neighboring county. But his wanderings were 
far and wide ; I have heard of him at Pitts- 
burg or near there, at Columbus, Ohio, and 
at several places in Indiana and Illinois. 
There is no doubt that his story has been car- 



OTHER BEGINNINGS. • 49 

ried and transplanted by emigrants, whose 
most distinctive my thus .he has enacted, if not 
created, to many places where he never was in 
the flesh. Moreover, he has become the cen- 
ter of manifold incidents and anecdotes which 
grow and cluster about his name and deed, as 
we see also in the case of Lincoln. It is evi- 
dent that Johnny Apple seed has evoked the 
popular myth-making spirit of the rather 
prosaic Westerner, quite similar to that 
which bloomed with such enduring beauty and 
fertility in old Greece, whose heroes, Her- 
cules, Theseus and the like, were once unique 
living men of a particular time and place, but 
were transfigured and made ubiquitous and 
sempiternal by legend. 

In my native town, accordingly, Johnny 
Appleseed was a known character (though I 
never saw him) and was the theme of many a 
little squib and anecdote, not always compli- 
mentary, among the people. It was plain, 
jiowever, that he had, in his way, captured 
the popular imagination, which kept him in 
living tradition long after he had left these 
parts, and, indeed, had passed out of life. 
Very early I associated him with another odd 
person, a fiddler, who used to go the rounds of 
that region playing on his instrument and 
singing some verses. Johnny Appleseed, as 
far as I know, did not sing or make poetry; 



50 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

but it somehow seemed to me that he ought. 
Both were solitary wanderers ; each pursued 
his own idea or followed his own bent, which 
he had to impart to the world in his peculiar 
fashion, outside of the regular course. At 
any rate, each appeared to me to possess 
something which the other lacked; so I 
clapped them together into one complete 
character for the enjoyment of my fancy. 
Thus the two grew together in my mind into 
a single personality already during my 
youthful days at Mount Gilead, and this 
mythical shadow of an ideal being has ac- 
companied me through life, sometimes more 
and sometimes less insistent upon his pres- 
ence. Still to-day now and then he springs 
out of nothing at my side and takes a walk 
with me through the park, considerably 
changed or perchance evolved from his first 
epiphany. 

A Writer of Books may be permitted to 
record an incident, otherwise trivial, which 
had a decided influence upon his literary 
blossoming during the present period. I was 
in my fourteenth year when I by chance came 
upon The Spectator, written by Addison and 
others. My sister had borrowed from a 
neighbor a copy, which I picked up and be- 
gan reading. I felt at once a difference in it 
from any book I had ever read — a difference 



OTHER BEGINNINGS. ^l 

not only in the matter, but especially in the 
manner. It became my companion; I bor- 
rowed it on my own account, and read and re- 
read it, particularly certain portions. I no- 
ticed a dissimilarity between the essays, sub- 
tle yet pervasive ; I began to group together 
those which I specially liked, and afterwards 
found that they were all by Addison, while 
the, to me, less attractive ones were by Steele 
and others. Very soon I had my own copy 
of The Spectator, which I thumbed and 
marked and hung over with a wholly new 
delight. I may call it my first literary book, 
which aroused in me a feeling for the style 
of the masters, that inimitable quality in 
human writing which rescues it from the de- 
vouring maw of Time and endows it with 
eternal youth. To be sure, I had read pieces 
of oratory and poetry in McGuifey's Fifth 
Eeader (a superb book of extracts) which 
thrilled me with various emotions, but which 
were sudden, short, brilliant jets of very dif- 
ferent values for me and from very different 
sources. This distracted me, but Addison 
concentrated me upon the one easy-flowing 
style which pervaded and held together in a 
common bond all his diversified productions. 
Naturally, I became so inoculated with his 
manner that I imitated his ideas, took his 
point of view, and tried later to write in the 
same way. 



52 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Addison's tone jnst suited my mood and 
my time of life. I was the adolescent who 
begins to separate himself from the world 
and to have his own inner life. I, too, be- 
came a spectator, or deemed myself such, of 
the foibles and follies of mankind. This is 
the general attitude of The Spectator, and 
specially of Addison, who still further tinged 
his genial thoughts with a certain unobtrusive 
play of religious emotion, mild but fascinat- 
ing as sheet-lightning in the distance. Then 
I may say that I obtained from Addison my 
first youthful world- view as well as my first 
distinctive feeling for literary stylie. An- 
other phase of his influence I well remember 
— his many classical allusions, which showed 
to what use a gifted man put the ancient lan- 
guages I was then droning over. I felt lured 
by his snatches of Latin placed at the head of 
his articles, to probe to their original sources, 
which were chiefly the old Eoman poets. Of 
course, I can read Addison with that youth- 
ful relish no longer. Indeed, after a few 
years he dropped out of my list of favorite 
authors — another took his place as I grew 
away from the Addisonian period of life. 
But while I was in it I imparted my mood to 
several acquaintances in town, boys of the 
same age, who also took to reading Addison, 
and became infected with his onlooking and 



OTHER BEGINNINGS. 53 

down-looking attitude toward the rest of the 
world, which we naturally practiced upon our 
neighbors, some of whom wondered what had 
gotten into us. In fact, one of these youths 
turned my mood back upon myself, declaring 
my proposal to play ball an unworthy pueril- 
ity in which he would no longer indulge. 

During my boyhood I was not exempt from 
a good deal of hard physical labor. On the 
farm at Uncle Joe's the word was work, work 
from dewy morn to twilight gray. I have 
never found fault with that, especially as 
good food and the comforts of life were abun- 
dant and freely given. In town my father 
required me to earn my own spending money, 
which I did by working in the brick yard, in 
the harvest field, and even by carrying the 
hod. I think that the most of my cash went for 
books, for I read a good deal in a rambling 
sort of way, not failing to absorb my father's 
favorite, old Lindley Murray's ''English 
Eeader, ' ' with its extracts largely taken from 
the Latinized authors of the eighteenth cen- 
tury, showing hardly a trace of the new ro- 
mantic movement in recent English litera- 
ture, which was fairly well represented in 
M'Gutfey. I felt this difference between the 
two samples of school-readers, and argued 
about it with my father, who stoutly main- 
tained that old Lindley had given better se- 



54 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

lections than those found in the modern new- 
fangled text-books. He was an educated man 
for his time, but without classical training; 
still he had inhaled in his youth quite a little 
whiff of that Latin culture — for it was in the 
air — which belonged to the South during and 
after the Eevolutionary period, whereof the 
best examples are found in the great Virginia 
statesmen. It possessed and imparted to dis- 
course and to life a certain courteous and dig- 
nified formalism which suited the Southerner. 
As I am now digging up the beginnings of 
tendencies which have been life-long, I have 
yet to speak of the one which was and has 
remained the deepest and most compelling of 
all — the German. I have previously men- 
tioned that I was growing beyond the range 
of my old schoolmaster, Phillips, in my de- 
sire to learn modern languages. I chanced to 
come upon a generous old gentleman who 
knew something of French and who offered 
to give me some lessons. I accepted, and 
made a little start. I may here state that 
when old Razz left town, my little Latin bud 
was in danger of wilting to death; but I 
pressed into service a lawyer who had been 
at college, and who was probably the only 
man in the place who knew something of the 
ancient tongues. Finally a Pennsylvania 
German druggist I besought to give me the 



OTHER BEGINNINGS. 



55 



pronnnciation of certain letters and words of 
his native tongue — ^wliich lie did, possibly 
with a dialectical twist, but it was all 
^^ Dutch'' to me, which I greedily devoured. 
I put these matters together here, but they 
were not cotemporaneous ; in fact, they were 
months and perhaps years apart, though they 
all occurred in the time now under considera- 
tion. They at least show the future writer 
of books levying upon the townspeople with 
no little audacity for that part of his educa- 
tion which the school could not furnish. 

I have emphasized my classical bent 
brought out by old Razz, but deeper than it 
and more native to me, I believe, was my im- 
pulse to acquire German. I do not now recol- 
lect when I had not the desire to learn that 
language; I have sometimes thought it was 
born with me, and it became a longing which 
at times was almost painful. I think I have 
already intimated that probably some spirit 
of my old German ancestry was reincarnated 
in me, and could not express himself in Eng- 
lish, and kept troubling me with his prompt- 
ings. I knew that my pepple on my father's 
side were of German descent, but my father 
could not speak a word in that tongue, and 
he seemed rather to avoid it. From my aunt, 
his sister, I learned that she, as a child, had 
heard her father and mother talk German to- 



56 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

gether, thougli tlie children could not under- 
stand them. Still she retained some words 
which had been picked up in childhood. I 
recollect that the word ScJinitt for the pared 
piece of an apple she always used. Later, 
when I could read German a little, she 
brought out one of her cherished heirlooms, 
the old document in German already men- 
tioned which pertained to my grandfather's 
baptism at Hagerstown. 

So, armed with my ''Dutch'' spelling-book, 
I went to old Johnny Wealand, the town drug- 
gist, fat and phlegmatic, a Pennsylvania Ger- 
man who could read and speak the language, 
and I began to get the sounds of letters and 
pronunciation of words. Soon Woodherry's 
Method fell into my hands, and in a short 
time I had the whole of it committed to 
memory. I worked at it with some strange 
fascination, and great was my delight when 
I began to make the old black Gothic letters 
yield up a meaning. Bits of verses began to 
be committed to memory, of which one from 
Schiller made such an impression that I still 
can cite it : 

Riihmend darf der Deutsche sagen, 

^ Hoher darf das Herz ihm schlagen 
Selbst erschuf er sich den Worth. 

I went around declaiming these lines and 
many others in German to my boyish as- 



OTHER BEGINNINGS. 57 

sociates, who did not understand them, but 
first stared at me, then laughed at me and 
mocked me, mostly in a prankish, good- 
natured way, but envy put in a little of her 
spite. I received caricatures and anonymous 
communications through the postoffice, set- 
ting off^he '^ Dutchman" in various attitudes 
with some crude raillery, the worst of which 
I attributed to a girl's revenge. 

In the meantime the tide of German emi- 
gration had hit the town and brought people 
who could not speak a word of English. 
These were the first native Germans in the 
place, though there were some Pennsyl- 
vanians who could talk their tongue. I lost 
no time in getting acquainted with the new- 
comers and practicing my infantile German 
upon them. They could understand me, but 
I not them. My ear could only now and then 
catch short expressions. Still I hunted them 
up daily ; they were stonemasons chiefly, and 
I would go to their place of work, and would 
gabble by the hour, and always got some- 
thing. They never failed to help me, par- 
ticularly one named Philip, an intelligent 
man, taught me what he could. 

When my companions among the boys saw 
me conversing with these people in a strange 
tongue the more ambitious wished also to 
learn it. I told them what to do, showed them 



58 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

my book, and said to tliem that I would help 
tliem. Perhaps half a dozen did start, and I 
imparted my information and even gave 
them lessons. I always had a willingness to 
share what knowledge I had; a touch of the 
propagandist, I imagine, remains with me to 
this day. But the boys did not hold out very 
long, though some of them acquired a little; 
most of them could not tide over the umlauts 

and ii, yet I saw one chap practicing them 
before the looking-glass. 

Though I have occupied myself with some 
six or eight ditferent languages during my 
life, I have never felt the same strong desire, 
the same persistent love for any others be- 
sides German and Greek. While in Greece 
there bubbled up always a certain innate de- 
light when I began to express myself in that 
tongue as a living speech; some silent part 
of my soul seemed to find therein an utter- 
ance. That was perhaps the most direct, 
intimate joy of my European journey. And 

1 may say here personally that of the books 
to whose study my life has been largely given 
I feel the strongest kinship with Goethe and 
Homer. 

During these years arose the struggle be- 
tween two small towns of this same county 
(Morrow) for the possession of the county 
seat, often travestied by the wits on both 



OTHER BEGINNINGS. 59 

sides as the war between the Gileadites 
(Israelites) and the Cardingtomtes (Canaan- 
ites). 1 found out afterwards tliat many 
counties in the West — I was going to say half 
of them — had such a war more or less intense. 
So it, too, was a real symbol. A little sketch 
of it I set in the Freehurgers^ which I used to 
read over the country wherever I might be 
lecturing. Usually somebody in the audience 
would tell me: ^'I know what that means; 
you are satirizing our county-seat fracas," 
naming the two contesting towns. Of this 
local fact I knew nothing till it rose to the 
surface. But such a war lay in the back- 
ground of my town-life during my entire 
youth, and gave occasion for a great deal of 
discussion at the stores and on the street cor- 
ners, always winding up with the stunning 
(g[uestion : Wliat are we going to do about it? 
Of course, the boy was an ardent partisan for 
his community, and was jerked through all 
#orts of feelings and imaginings by the 
rumored movements of the enemy — since the 
whole war consisted of Dame Rumor, whom 
Homer and Virgil have so vividly personified 
in her appearance on the field of conflict. But 
from this petty and indeed imaginary strug- 
gle the town was next to be whirled into a 
contest of the farthest-reaching significance 
— the Presidential campaign of 1856 — in 



60 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

many ways the prelude of the mightiest war 
of history. 

VI. 

The Yeae 1856. 

Looking backward, I am led to believe that 
the year 1856 gave me a greater range of ex- 
periences, both in quantity and kind, than 
any other year of my early life. The town 
was deeply agitated by a number of con- 
flicts, and I shared sympathetically in its 
throes. Then I had my personal problems 
which were culminating upon me ; I had come 
to a parting of the ways; I had reached an 
age when the choice of a vocation looms up 
portentous in the horizon. At least so it was 
to me; the way I wished to go futurewards 
seemed blocked ; the way I did not wish to go 
was open, yea there were attempts to push 
me into it against my will. Outsiders fre- 
quently volunteered the advice that it was 
time for me to begin working at a trade, that " 
I had book-learning enough, if not too much 
already; a couple of officious relatives in- 
sisted that I ought at once to be put to the 
carpenter's bench, or start to soldering cans 
at a tinshop. This continual nagging simply 
bedeviled me, ending, as it usually did, with 
the sarcastic remark, ''"Oh, you are another 
who wants to get a living without work." 



THE YEAR 1856. gl 

Internally I resisted, but not outwardly, as I 
was aware that my father leaned to the same 
opinion, though not inclined to force me in 
opposition to my wishes. I knew, however, 
that I had a fortress in Aunt Mary, who, if 
necessary, could shoot out of her mouth a 
very effective cannon ball at my besiegers. 

Meanwhile the Presidential campaign of 
1856 dashed through the town with unwonted 
fury, occupying everybody's attention and 
relieving me for a while from my tormentors, 
as it gave them something to argue about. 
Two leading political parties again appeared, 
but different from those of 1852. The work 
of Douglas and his Southern allies in repeal- 
ing the Missouri Compromise had produced 
an oceanic upheaval in the North, and had 
called into existence the Eepublican party, 
which had put up John C. Fremont as candi- 
date for the Presidency. It was a vast new 
alignment of political organizations upon the 
question: Shall the national territory be 
made into Slave States or Free States? This 
had been precipitated by the troubles in Kan- 
sas, to which Mount Gilead and its county 
(Morrow) had contributed a number of the 
first emigrants, fighters too, among whom 
was the notorious Sam Wood, who was a 
leader in the earliest Kansas broils, then 
headed a regiment of fierce borderers during 



g2 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the Civil War, and finally died in Ms boots 
fighting a Kansas connty-seat battle. He was 
a Quaker or of Quaker parentage, but Kansas 
made him a man of blood and violence, if 
there ever was one. Twice I saw him in his 
old home after he had barely escaped by 
rapid flight from the clutches of the South- 
erners at the sack of Lawrence, but he soon 
returned to the sanguinary stamping-ground 
of old John Brown. Others came back and 
told to their neighbors the piteous tale of 
Kansas ' woes ; every community in the North 
was stirred by the personal accounts of these 
returners as well as by the vast printed 
literature on the subject. Thus Kansas be- 
came the main center around which the cam- 
paign surged and bellowed oratorically, the 
one side echoing the shrieks of the bleeding 
Kansans, the other side belittling the whole 
thing with no small outlay of satirical banter. 
The Democratic speakers, however, had one 
positive theme : the Union is in danger. To 
this topic they could always get a popular re- 
sponse, though they hardly knew that they 
were training their party and themselves to 
fight for the Union four years later, in re- 
sponse to the call of a Republican President. 

It so happened that I had a rare oppor- 
tunity of seeing and hearing the ups and 
downs of this campaign in a variety of com- 



THE YEAR 1856. . ^3 

munities, some of tlie one and some of the 
other party. I seemed to feel the folk- soul 
rolling and surging in all its fluctuations be- 
tween the two political tendencies of the time. 
Some of the young fellows of the town had 
formed a brass band with its full complement 
of horns, and had been practicing a year or 
two, with the result that they could play for 
political mass meetings, and were in demand 
throughout quite a section of the adjacent 
country, which had little music for such oc- 
casions except the elemental drum and fife. 
I was a member of this musical organization, 
having been pushed up to play a leading in- 
.strument, the cornet, from the very humblest 
starting point, which was the bass drum. In 
fact, I learned to toot the whole set of instru- 
ments except the keyed bugle — a feat not 
very difficult, as they were valved saxhorns, 
made after one general pattern from lowest 
to highest, the trombone excepted. The 
grade of artistic execution was not very high, 
as may be inferred from the fact that not one 
of the boys could read his music at sight ; it 
had to be drilled into them by ear. I alone 
could play by note somewhat, yet well enough 
for those simple tunes ; so much I had learned 
one winter in an evening singing school, and 
by practice on my flute. At any rate, here 
was my first training to the orchestra, that 



64 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

associated music which is the highest bloom 
of this art and possibly of all art, manifest- 
ing at its best harmoniously our modern 
world. The various instruments and their 
distinctive qualities of tone became familiar 
to me in form and sound. The town could 
show the three chief kinds of orchestral in- 
struments — the stringed, the brass and the 
wood- wind (the latter was represented by the 
flute and piccolo, also there was a good popu- 
lar clarinettist in- the place). Nor should we 
forget that the usual percussion instruments 
were not wanting — the two drums, the tri- 
angle, the bones, etc. Of course, there was at 
yet no organization of these instrumental 
sounds in an orchestral totality ; they were in 
a separated state, though trying to come to- 
gether, and perchance instinctively longing 
to be joined into a musical entirety. A dozen 
years later I became a member of the St. 
Louis Orchestra. I found the same triple 
series of instruments with which I first be- 
came acquainted in the little town of my 
youth, but they were all ordered or associated 
into a new concordant unity. It is my opin- 
ion that through this early musical ex- 
perience I have been enabled to integrate the 
orchestra with myself and to make it ex- 
pressive of that institutional order which lies 
deepest in our human existence, and which it 



THE YEAR 18-56. g5 

is the function of music and of all art to ex- 
press to tlie senses and eraotions. 

Accordingly I was rayed out in all direc- 
tions from tliat one little center, whereby my 
local horizon was considerably widened, see- 
ing towns much larger than my own, sharing, 
sympathetically, in a great popular move- 
ment, which was the first clearly defined step, 
the primal note I may call it, of the new po- 
litical order which has lasted through my 
whole life and is still ^T.tally throbbing. I 
heard the first speakers on both sides and lis- 
tened to their words, not altogether impar- 
tially I imagine. AYlio made the best speech? 
The one which I recollect most vividly was 
by a Democratic backwoods orator who went 
by the name of Judge Metcalf. He spoke in 
a kind of dialect which was, of course, native 
to him and his people, and, as I recall it, re- 
sembled the Hoosier-Buckeye patois of Whit- 
comb Eiley. There were three high, well- 
made stands for speakers as the multitude 
was great ; but I was drawn to a large and 
noisy crowd gathered around a small plat- 
form which consisted of a couple of planks 
laid on two saw-bucks. The men were engaged 
chiefly in shouting for their favorite, who had 
not yet appeared. At last he came, and a 
hand assisted him to mount the rude plat- 
form, when a pandemonic yell broke loose 



QQ A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

from that seething mass by way of salutation. 
Not a few of those people had traveled many 
miles, jnst to hear their own true voice and 
to feel their hearts beating to the native 
words of their orator. They raved and 
roared, and stamped and cursed, especially 
cursed these new-fangled ' ' damned black Re- 
publicans '' who were going to break up the 
Union. On their part they were all good old 
" Dimmycrats/ ' coming down in a straight 
line from Tom Jefferson and Andy Jackson. 
But the orator was the marvel, employing 
humor, pathos, sarcasm and conjuring up at 
will a metaphorical tornado which would 
scoop his audience oif their feet into the very 
empyrean, from which height he would gently 
let them down again in a universal guffaw. 
Though I was not on his side, I was carried 
along with the tide, and applauded and 
shouted myself hoarse at his anecdotes and 
mimicry and genuine poetry, which he tapped 
in its deepest sources. Of course, I felt my 
love for the Union to be as fervent as that 
of the speaker, who always came back from 
his grandest flights and touched this emotion 
as his keynote. But I, in common with the 
folk-soul of the North, or the most aspiring 
portion thereof, and with a decided majority 
of my own State, wished to have in the future 
our Union Free-State producing only. Two 



THE YEAR 1856. g7 

hours must have slipped away ; I heard in the 
distance a famiUar tune of my fellow-horn- 
blowers calling for me; I clutched my little 
instrument and ran as fast as I could, toot- 
ing a note now and then in response ; at last 
I climbed into the band wagon, with that 
speech surging through my brain — a kind of 
anticipation of Brockmeyer in his happiest 
stumpification. Tom Corwin was famed as 
the best popular orator in Ohio at that time, 
and he was on the Republican side, but I 
never heard him. Of Metcalf I tried to keep 
track, but he seemed to drop out of sight; 
some inquiry brought to the surface only two 
or three points, one of which was that he was 
addicted to rural rotgut whiskey — doubtless 
the chief cause of his relative obscurity and 
rapid evanishment. 

To participate in such a campaign at such 
a time had its discipline. The mind of the 
boy was stamped with the two mightily con- 
tending sides, one of which he espoused and 
one of which he opposed. The struggle of a 
great idea with the reality which it is seek- 
ing to possess and transform is surely a su- 
preme training. I was enlisted on the side 
of the as yet unrealized idea, where, under 
many varying forms, I have remained. The 
catchwords then current went to the bottom 
of the individual soul as well as to the heart 



68 



A WRITER OF BOOKS. 



of the World's History, being freedom and 
slavery. Moreover that the Universe itself 
splits in two that it may become truly one, 
was illustrated in the little town, in the State, 
and in the whole Nation; that same process 
must have gone into me instinctively, as I 
saw it everywhere and took part in its work- 
ings. 

The result of the election was that the 
Democracy won in the Nation, though the Re- 
publicans carried Ohio and a majority of the 
Northern States. I do not think that I ever 
afterwards felt so keenly the political defeat 
of the party to which I belonged. It seemed 
to me that the country must now go straight 
to ruin. But all see at present that Fremont 
was not the man for President in such a 
crisis; moreover the young and sappy Re- 
publican party was too inexperienced to take 
control of the Government, and had yet to 
find its true leader. In the course of the next 
four years the right man will appear and take 
his place at its head — Abraham Lincoln. 

When the election was past and I settled 
down again in quiet little Mount Gilead I felt 
at the end of my string. The political ex- 
citement was over, the brass band had no 
more calls for its music, old Razz had gone 
elsewhere, and I had no teacher ; really I had 
outgrown the town, and nothing apparently 



THE YEAR 1856. g9 

was left except learning a trade — an outlook 
which I abhorred. The busybodies had again 
begun their torment, to which I was unduly 
sensitive. One day I happened to think that 
I had heard of a small college, not far distant, 
and that I had seen its buildings once from 
the band wagon in my journeying during the 
recent campaign. I at once set out on foot 
for the place, which was only ten miles away, 
in order to explore the situation. I saw the 
leading professor and found that I could con- 
tinue Latin and begin Greek, also that the ex- 
penses of living and of tuition were very 
moderate. It was still early in November, and 
the next Monday the new term would begin. 
I hastened homeward, calculating in my head 
how much the seven months of schooling 
would cost me, for I hardly expected it would 
reach beyond the scholastic year ending in 
June. First of all, I sought Aunt Mary and 
unfolded the situation as well as my plan. 
' ' Lend me forty dollars, and, with what 
money I have already saved, I can pull 
through till next summer. " ' ' I '11 do it, ' ' she 
said with decision, which meant not only that 
she would furnish tlie cash (she had inherited 
a little fortune from the ancestral estate), but 
also that she would fight my battle in case of 
necessity. When my father came home in the 
evening, we had our ammunition ready; he 



70 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

was informed of the new purpose. He was 
at first surprised, but made no serious op- 
position; in fact, lie soon fell in with it and 
gave his encouragement. As he kept a shoe 
store and employed a number of workmen, it 
was once proposed to make me a shoemaker, 
but from that prospect I was now relieved, 
for a while at least. Moreover, I would no 
longer be in town, and thus would escape my 
miserable tormentors. The next day I packed 
up my things and set out for Iberia College. 
Thus my town-life came to an end, for I 
never went back to Mount Gilead to live per- 
manently. Five years it had lasted (1851- 
1856) and had given me its peculiar dis- 
cipline. I had shared in all its agitations and 
conflicts as a community, from the national 
(or perhaps world-historical) pulsation 
throbbing in it down to its little local jeal- 
ousies and animosities. A perennial source 
of talk and wrath and occasional fights was 
the rivalry between Mount Gilead and Card- 
ington over the county seat, which the former 
possessed but the latter strove to get. The 
two places were only five miles apart. Each 
had less than a thousand inhabitants, but the 
one (Cardington) had a railroad and the 
other had not. When the political excite- 
ment died away the county-seat war would 
begin to bubble up with an astonishing 



THE BREAK. Yl 

vehemence. In this war I was passionately 
enlisted as a regular soldier, and shared in 
all the hopes and fears of my side as well as 
its ever-gnawing suspicions of deep-laid plots 
on the part of the enemy. Both sides were 
about equal in impotence, so that the situa- 
tion remained quite the same, and the con- 
flict was an incessant drawn battle. Thus I 
fought anew in my youth that very old war 
between Pygmies and Cranes, and I never 
got rid of it till the day on which I started for 
Iberia. 

The institutional life of the average Ameri- 
can town I had now experienced and appro- 
priated — certainly a very important acquisi- 
tion. Moreover I had pretty well exhausted 
the stores of culture which had existed there 
for me. But chiefly I had felt the anxious 
throb of the folk- soul nerving itself to a for- 
ward step in history with prodigious lower- 
ing responsibilities. Next I was to take a 
little stride myself in my own little world. 

VII. 

The Break. 

From my second home, as I have already 
called it, I now broke away. To be sure, I 
walked back to it every two or three weeks 
on Saturday and stayed till ^^iiclay evening. 



72 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

In Iberia many of the students boarded them- 
selves ; I followed tlieir example and had the 
experience of being my own provider, cook 
and dish-washer. I did not starve myself, 
though I lived economically. At first I had 
a companion, but he ran off when I continued 
the enterprise alone, holding out to the end 
as my own host, guest and scullion. 

The Latin elementary works, Caesar, Virgil, 
Sallust and Cicero, I read, some of them in 
class and some by myself. Greek I started in 
the grammar and reader of old Peter Bul- 
lions. I do not think that I ever studied with 
so much fury, for I thought it was my last 
chance to get a classical education, and to 
realize that antique world toward which old 
Eazz had started me. But a new tendency 
was here called up in me unexpectedly : every 
month the students were required to write 
an essay which was to be read before the 
whole school. Thus the literary passion 
started and has not yet stopped — witness the 
present book of an old man, the Writer of 
Books. It is true that I had dashed off little 
things before in prose and verse. But these 
efforts were temporary spurts, without order 
or revisions, breaking out when I could not 
help it, and stopping when I could stop. Now 
at Iberia the teacher criticised each produc- 
tion and made some discriminating remarks 



THE BREAK. 73 

as to merit and style; but the main tribunal 
was an appreciative audience of some fifty 
students who always had their own opinion 
of what was best. Moreover, there was some 
emulation between the three or four most 
capable writers, each of whom had his con- 
stituency of admirers. I had my little coterie 
— by no means the whole body of listeners — 
who would come to me and ask after hearing 
one of my productions : ' ' Eead us that com- 
position again'' — ^witli which request I un- 
failingly complied, as it tickled an exceed- 
ingly sensitive spot of my vanity. This I 
think they saw and wished to give me a pleas- 
ure; but I also believe that the little essays 
appealed to them, as they stood quite on the 
same level of culture with me, and as some of 
them began to imitate my manner in their 
own efforts. Eeally, however, theirs was an 
imitation of an imitation. My pattern was 
Addison, whom I had already appropriated 
with a delight in his style and an intimacy 
with his world-view, which not only deter- 
mined my literary expression, but colored my 
whole existence. I recollect of rewriting in 
my own way the vision of Mirza, and of as- 
suming the character of Sir Roger de Cover- 
ley. Some other books of a similar character 
I looked into, for instance, Johnson's Ram- 
bler, but they never had for me the charm of 
Addison, 



74 



A WRITER OF B00K8. 



At Iberia I think I may say that my lit- 
erary career as a writer opens. I then began 
to set down in words what lay deepest and 
strongest within me, though only an adoles- 
cent. What I composed was an imitation, 
still it was emphatically mine and had no con- 
scious adjustment to my audience. That at- 
titude I have essentially maintained as an in- 
tegral part of character, though in other re- 
spects I have changed and evolved a good 
deal. I never could bring myself to write 
habitually for the newspaper, the magazine, 
the periodical of any kind whose eye must be 
upon its constituency. That undoubtedly put 
me out of tune with the overwhelming lit- 
erary tendency of my time, and caused me to 
be an author without a public except the few 
whom I might be able to train myself. Of 
course, there was no pay for any such writ- 
ing. I had to make my living, but that I did 
in my vocation of teacher and lecturer. Thus 
I earned money; but when it came to the 
written page, this must be the best expression 
of what I deemed the highest truth, whether 
it was liked or not, whether it was even un- 
derstood or not. That was and is, in my 
view. Literature, and it has remained my 
Holy of Holies which I have refused to sell 
out. A few times I have been asked to con- 
tribute articles to periodicals for pay, but I 



THE BREAK. 75 

have declined except in a single case. A few 
times I say, not many — for an expert editor 
wonld at once detect that such writing as 
mine would wreck his magazine. I may here 
mention the exception just alluded to. Many 
years ago Eugene Field hunted me up in 
Chicago, where I was giving some talks upon 
Faust to a small circle — ^which did not touch 
his famous literary circle at any point, I be- 
lieve — and very appreciatively asked me to 
write ah article for the Neivs, with which he 
was connected, upon Irving 's Faust, whose 
dramatic rendition was then the theatrical 
event of the city. He sent me two first-class 
tickets for the performance, and, if I mistake 
not, a vehicle for my comfort — things to 
which I was not used. I can truly say that I 
wished to decline, but that seemed discour- 
teous after all his trouble. Accordingly, I 
wrote the article, which had to be intelligible 
to the average newspaper reader in Chicago, 
whom I knew nothing about. So I cooked it 
up as well as I could with him in mind, a 
column or more in length, having my name 
attached. In my own opinion, it was spoilt 
stuff — a failure ; but judge my surprise when 
I received for it a check of twenty-five dol- 
lars from the editor, which has remained the 
first last and only compensation in money for 
any writing of mine up to this day. To be 



76 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

sure, some of my books have been sold and I 
have received the proceeds, but, taken as a 
whole, they have not paid the printer's bill. 
I ought to add that the editor never asked me 
for a second article. 

Now I wish to be understood as not mak- 
ing any insinuation of wrong-doing against 
the army of worthy people who write and 
have to write for money. Such employment 
is just as honorable as that of any other 
trade by which a person seeks to mfake an 
honest living, certainly as honest as carpen- 
tering, or blacksmithing, or shoemaking. But 
in most cases, though perhaps not in all, it 
becomes a mere mechanical adjustment to 
supply a need. I never could treat Literature 
in that way. I would teach a prescribed 
science or lecture upon an assigned topic for 
pay, to the best of my ability; but when I 
took pen in hand I felt another purpose. My 
standpoint was no longer in the hearer or 
reader, but in the thing itself, cost what it 
might. Sometimes the two methods have 
been happily combined, but the present ten- 
dency is toward their separation more and 
more. I certainly could never unite the in- 
dependent literary spirit with any money- 
getting. The highest spiritual activity of my 
Self in its best moments I expressed in writ- 
ing and had to give away — nobody was going 



THE BREAK. 77 

to pay for that ; but my more mechanical part 
I could and did sell for bread. 

From the same source springs another fact 
which has persisted through life and for 
which I have been sometimes censured: I 
have had to print, publish, and, for the most 
part, sell my own books. Twice or thrice I 
have had a publisher for a brief season, and 
I would always have been glad of relief from 
that part of my labor ; but the American pub- 
lishing machine as at present constituted 
would not, and perhaps could not, sell my 
stuff. So I had to distribute it myself as best 
I could, or quit doing the only thing which 
gave me a right to existence, as I regarded 
my earthly lot. I am well aware that the 
feud between author and publisher has al- 
ways been a hot one ; it is said that the Lon- 
don society of writers used to toast Napoleon 
regularly for having hung a publisher. I am 
not exactly in that feud, for I have conjoined 
both sides ; still the problem in my own long 
experience is a complicated one, so I shall 
drop it here, at least for the present. 

I may repeat, then, that the literary bent 
plumped out of me rather suddenly at Iberia 
in response to an external stimulation. I 
there started to become a Writer of Books, 
though no book was then produced and much 
had still to be learned and thought out. At 



78 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the time, of course, I was unconscious of any 
such far-stretching tendency in me, which 
was to gather into its sweep nearly all the 
best hours of my life. The written word in 
its various forms gradually grew to be my 
passion — not only my occupation, but my 
way of intoxication. The spoken word 
dropped to a secondary place, really to a 
means for developing within me and propa- 
gating outside of me what I wrote. It is 
true that in early years, I, like every Ameri- 
can boy, was ambitious to be an orator, and 
to speak before the people; hence I culti- 
vated declamation and spouted not only to 
my comrades but to the trees of the forest — 
whereat a passing farmer once slipped up be- 
hind me and demanded: ^'What are you 
preaching for T ' ^ ' To beat Dan Webster, ' ' I 
replied. But, I need not say, that part of the 
dream never attained to any fulfillment. 
Oratory, I soon came to see, had to keep in 
mind the audience addressed, its culture, its 
capacity, even its prejudices; whereas the 
writ, as I began to conceive it, took an un- 
shaken stand upon the object and unfolded 
it according to its own inner law; if the au- 
dience did not take to that sort of thing, it 
was high time for them to begin to learn, and 
I would help them by the spoken word. To 
that end I would teach and talk and take their 



THE BREAK. 79 

cash; but my writing had to be an end unto 
i^"self, existing for its own sake, with its own 
independent right of being. Such Literature 
could hardly have a public till it made one, 
and certainly not a publisher till it had a pub- 
lic. So the matter hangs to-day. 

At Iberia I obtained quite a glimpse into 
college life, as distinct from my previous ex- 
perience of home-life and town-life. The in- 
stitution was very small, with almost no 
equipment, except its three or four pro- 
fessors, who were graduates and showed to 
us something of the collegiate spirit. More- 
over, several of the students had been at 
other colleges or knew a good deal about 
them, and so I heard no little talk of larger 
seats of learning and their better opportuni- 
ties. I came to the conclusion that Iberia was 
too small for me, and that I must take a fresh 
plunge if I could again swim upstream. The 
school had no claim upon me as a religious 
foundation, as it was an offshoot of Presby- 
terianism, to whose tenets my father was 
rather averse, though not bitterly so, in spite 
of some warm discussions over predestina- 
tion with a strict old Calvinistic shoemaker 
in his employ, who would raise his shoe ham- 
mer and foredamn the unborn sinner from 
the beginning of the world. At the close of 
the term I went home for vacation, in which 



30 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

I reviewed my classical books, but chiefly I 
laid siege to Aunt Mary for a loan of three 
hundred dollars — a large sum for that time, 
but I obtained it. Therewith opens a new 
chapter in the career of this Writer of Books. 



CHAPTER SECOND. 



AT COLLEGE. 



On a bright day in the latter part of Au- 
gust, 1857, I bounded into a railroad train at 
Gilead Station (now called Edison) and 
started for Oberlin College, with which I was 
destined to be connected five years. As I look 
back at this step through more than half a 
century, I deem it pivotal in my life, and so I 
shall speak of it with some fullness. At first I 
thought of other colleges, especially Antioch, 
of which Horace Mann was the president. 
His name was well known in my father's 
family by virtue of his anti-slavery career, 
and the reputation of Oberlin was not alto- 
gether savory in Central Ohio on account of 
its supposed idiosyncracies. But through the 
influence of a comrade who was going along 
I was deflected to the latter seat of learning, 
taking with me my second sister, Sarah, 

(81) 



82 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

whose ambition had also been roused to do as 
well as her brother or better. Later a younger 
brother and a younger sister followed us, 
making four of the family who at one time or 
other partook of the instruction at Oberlin. 

Thus I was separated from my former 
home-life and town-life, as it turned out, for- 
ever. Now I hold that the most significant 
thing about Oberlin was not the college, but 
the community. Its educational facilities 
could be easily duplicated, and, indeed, im- 
proved upon, but its communal character, or, 
I might say, consciousness, was unique. This 
I now believe to have been my chief training, 
both by way of sympathy and antipathy, 
though I was not aware of any such school- 
ing at the time. Oberlin claimed to differ (for 
it was not lacking in self-regard), and, as I 
still think, did differ in a number of impor- 
tant points from any community in the 
United States. To be sure, it belonged in a 
general way to a great movement of the time, 
which sought to new-model the founding of 
American communities after some plan of 
human betterment. Many reformers, espe- 
cially religious reformers, felt that the vil- 
lage, the town, the workshop, yea, all human 
association, must be changed from the old 
way fundamentally. The presupposition was 
that the ordinary community which the mi- 



AT COLLEGE. 83 

grating settlers brought forth in the West by 
hundreds and thousands, more or less in ac- 
cord with the inherited Anglo-Saxon pattern 
in their heads, was radically defective and 
must be completely transformed. What 
civilization had evolved through the ages and 
imparted to her children was wrong, and must 
be corrected according to the new idea of 
some strong, self-asserting individual. 

Such was a notable phenomenon of the first 
half of the Nineteenth Century, occurring 
throughout the country, but especially in the 
West, where the land necessary for the ex- 
periment of a self-sustaining independent 
communal organization was very cheap. 
Some years ago Mr. Charles Nordhoff gave 
an interesting account of the Communistic So- 
cieties of the United States, embracing those 
which practiced Communism, that is, did 
away with the individual ownership of prop- 
erty, to the end of a more perfect association 
of man. There were communities, however, 
which went still farther, tampering with the 
domestic relation which they deemed in its 
present form the chief source of human ills. 
The Oneida Community established what they 
called '^ complex marriage''; the Mormons 
were polygamous, the Shakers agamous (celi- 
bates). Still, the great majority of these so- 
cieties were monogamous, leaving the Family 



84 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

as it liad been transmitted, and putting their 
main stress upon tlie reform of tlie socio- 
economic order, wliicli reform was quite uni- 
versally based upon some reconstruction of 
tlie cliurcli. The movement was deep and 
pervasive, and certainly was the outburst of a 
profound spiritual longing of the time. In 
general, it was a reaction against long-estab- 
lished and somewhat crystallized institutional 
forms, domestic, social, political, and espe- 
cially religious. The typical act may be sum- 
marized as a flight from the existent order of 
things to the woods, where the entire fabric of 
institutions was to be built up anew accord- 
ing to the ideal prototype throbbing for 
realization in the brain of the founder. 

Now Oberlin in its origin was such a flight, 
impelled by such motives. The primal genetic 
act of it is recorded as follows : A young 
clergyman, filled with the new idea, resolves 
to quit his charge in an established town, and 
rides eight or ten miles distant into the heart 
of a dense forest, where he proposed to build 
up his model society. There were existent 
communities not far away which offered him 
a start, but they were eschewed one and all ; 
the whole communal process must be done 
over again from the beginning, the presump- 
tion being that it was radically vicious in its 
present form. Such was the birth-mark 



AT COLLEGE. 85 

stamped upon Oberlin, which, we repeat, be- 
longed to a movement of the age, though as- 
suming many diversified shapes. We hold 
that the New England Transcendentalism is 
a part of the same general movement, so is 
Mormonism, as well as the communistic so- 
cieties already mentioned, not to speak of 
many other social attempts non-communistic. 
I arrived in Oherlin about twenty-five years, 
after this first historic act of it, which is set 
down as having occurred in 1832. But it had 
evolved a good deal from that primitive egg, 
though it still showed many signs of its 
origin. It had unfolded into the most unique, 
the most important and the most lasting of 
these communities. 

The original idea of this community is best 
seen in the so-called Oherlin Covenant, a sort 
of newest Testament to the early Oberlinites. 
"We will hold and manage our estates per- 
sonally, but pledge as perfect a community 
of interest as though we held a community 
of property.'' Evidently the communistic 
end hovers before the mind of the author, but 
the means is not pure communism. Still it is 
well to mark the limitation. ''We will . . . 
obtain as much as we can above our necessary 
personal or family expenses, and faithfully 
appropriate the same to the spread of the 
Gospel." But did the community prescribe 



86 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

to the individual what were necessary ex- 
penses! At the start, yes. ''We will eat only 
plain and wholesome food/' no tobacco, no 
tea and coffee, no following the fashion in 
dress. At this point the inner conflict opened. 
The individual began to claim the right of 
determining what were his necessary ex- 
penses, and gradually won the point. - In my 
time the struggle was practically over, the 
sumptuary regulation was tacitly dropped. 
But certain results of it could be seen. The 
fabulously cheap boarding, the very moderate 
expense of tuition, the equality between the 
poor and the more wealthy student in regard 
to educational advantages were still in evi- 
dence decidedly. The gratitude of many 
graduates of Oberlin springs from the feel- 
ing that they could not have obtained a col- 
legiate training except under the conditions 
then and there present — which conditions 
arose from the early community. This, start- 
ing in a general movement of the time, 
evolved into a distinct character of its own. 

Accordingly in passing from Mount Gilead 
to Oberlin I made quite a communal transi- 
tion, which left its impress upon me during 
life. The former was simply a community 
of the old pattern, with nothing distinctive in 
its origin, while Oberlin at its birth may be 
deemed a kind of protest against such town- 



AT COLLEGE. 87 

making. Thus, however, I became acquainted 
with that protest and heard much about it in 
one way or other. Oberlin knew itself to be 
peculiar, separate, unique, and often said so. 
It was introspective, self-occupied, self-re- 
garding, self-examining, but also self -glorify- 
ing. Such a tendency may be largely as- 
cribed- to its original religious motive, which 
so strongly pervades the Covenant. This 
starts with ^'lamenting the degeneracy of the 
Church and the deplorable condition of our 
perishing world" — all of which is to be re- 
formed through the new organization of the 
community, namely, through Oberlin. 

Another phase of it must not be neglected. 
Oberlin was practically an offshoot of New 
England, being manned chiefly by New Eng- 
land teachers and located in a part of the 
State settled mainly by New Englanders. 
And yet Oberlin was also a reaction against 
the decided religious tendency in New Eng- 
land toward Unitarianism. From this point 
of view the Oberlin movement may be con- 
ceived as a return to and reconstruction of 
the old Puritanic ideal in the West, after it 
had been substantially lost in the East. The 
Covenant had already its eye upon ''the Val- 
ley of the Mississippi'' and the influence 
which it ' ' must exert over our nation and the 
nations of the earth.'' Probably there was 



88 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

■4 

nowhere in New England itself a community 
so Puritanic as Oberlin. There is no doubt 
that the genuine original Yankee consci- 
ousness could be better experienced in Ober-^ 
lin by an outsider than at Yale or Harvard. 
I have always believed that I, an outsider, 
came to understand it pretty well at Oberlin. 
Its chief dualism, that between conscience 
and authority, or that between the moral and 
institutional elements of man, was brought 
home to me there with a grinding intensity, 
which has remained with me all my days and 
has repeatedly insisted upon literary utter- 
ance. Oberlin claimed the right through its 
^ ' Law of God ' ' to disregard the ^ ' Law of the 
State,'' and the result was a terrific clash be- 
tween the two laws into whose maelstrom I 
was whirled during my whole college course. 
I realize now that just this was one of the 
deepest and farthest-reaching experiences of 
my life, since the mentioned collision was 
rapidly getting to be national, yea, world-his- 
torical. 

It is declared that practically all ideal com-^ 
munities ever started were governed by one- 
man power, if they amounted to anything. In 
fact, they were in this country a reaction 
against the democratic communal organiza- 
tion, and may well be deemed a reversion to 
Oriental absolutism sprung largely of the 



AT COLLEGE. 89 

study of the Hebrew Bible, as they were deep- 
ly religions in origin. There was, how- 
ever, one non-religions, if not atheistic, com- 
munity, chiefly French, called Icarie, founded 
by M. Cabet, who has the reputation of over- 
throwing his own democratic constitution and 
turning tyrant till he was driven out by a 
counter-revolution. Now Oberlin also had its 
autocrat, not aggressive generally, often not 
visible, still present. He was the strongest 
character in town, as well as its most dis- 
tinguished man ; not directly a teacher in the 
college nor its administrator, he was su- 
premely the sermonizer, moulding the stu- 
dents and the community by the spoken word, 
which, when printed, lost much of its power. 
I sat under his preaching during most of my 
college course, and felt his strong nature 
working upon mine, both sympathetically and 
antipathetically. He was the chief architect 
of the Oberlin community, though not its. 
originator ; he might be called its theocrat,' for 
his deepest innate bent was theocratic. This 
highly original personality, though never my 
instructor formally, reached me through two 
channels which I could not have found else- 
where: his gift of speech and his communal 
institution, of which he might be called spirit- 
ual head. Here I shall speak of him first. 



90 A WRITER OF BOOKS, 

I. 

Peesident Finney. 

Just on graduation day I happened to ar- 
rive in Oberlin when the place was full of 
strangers. My sister had made the acquaint- 
ance of a young lady who was a student, and 
they went off together to the Ladies ' Hall. I 
looked after the baggage and then followed 
the crowd from the station into town, where 
with some trouble I found lodging. In the 
morning I was rung out of bed at an early 
hour for me, and in due time was sitting 
down at my first Oberlin breakfast — plain, in- 
deed, but good enough for anybody. This duty 
being successfully done, with its accompany- 
ing devotions on the part of some twenty 
boarders, I passed into the street, which soon 
led me to a large square, in whose middle 
stood Tappan Hall. Meanwhile an ever-in- 
creasing stream of people kept pouring down 
the avenue, and I, too, plunged into the cur- 
rent, which rapidly brought me to the large 
brick church where the graduation exercises 
were already taking place, with a vast mul- 
titude both inside and outside the building. 
The day was hot, and I was much excited by 
the many novelties. The music made by the 
large choir and the big organ was specially 
overwhelming, and swept my old rural brass 



PRESIDENT FINNEY. 91 

band, with all its tunes, into simple nothing- 
ness. The man who called off the names of 
the speakers I observed with some care at a 
distance ; he was getting bald, his face looked 
grizzled, and it bristled with a prickly reddish 
beard; his voice rang out to every corner, res- 
onant and clear as a bell. That was Presi- 
dent Charles G. Finney, a man of great force 
and native eloquence. He was the ostensible 
head of the college, but, as already observed, 
he took almost no part in its direct adminis- 
tration or instruction; these two important 
functions he left to other hands. Still, his 
was the dominating influence of the institu- 
tion. I have also designated him as the great 
sermonizer to the students; that he was, in 
his unique way; but he held another power, 
higher and more compelling. In my judg- 
ment he stood as the ultimate referee at Ober- 
lin in that basic conflict between the two laws, 
divine and huiiian, which had there arisen 
with all its intensity. People had to have an 
authoritative expositor of God's Law in its 
struggle with the secular State ; that was the 
supreme function of Finney — he was the 
voice of the supernal decree to his flock. I do 
not say that any such position was explicitly 
assigned to him in the college organism; ra- 
ther was the influence tacit, implicit, yea, 
largely unconscious, but nevertheless very 



92 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

real and active — a sort of uncrowned Pope lie 
was of the Oberlin hierarchy, through his 
genius. 

He was a fiery revivalist of the old sort, 
not dissimilar to Peter Cartwright. The dam- 
nation of the wicked was his great theme, and 
certainly for realistic scenes drawn from the 
infernal regions he was a vivid painter. He 
was an original on many sides. In the pulpit 
he would look at the students with an intense 
blue eye, which would make us all duck 
around the galleries. He turned them once 
at me, who sat in the front seat, amid a fiery 
denunciation, then stopped and fixed them 
upon me. I thought I was lost ; I felt almost 
consumed in his look ; I imagined he was go- 
ing to call me out by name just there, and 
cite me before the Last Judgment. How 
great was my relief when he turned away and 
went on preaching ! My fright lasted for 
some days, and still I can see those quivering 
balls of blue flame sinctillating and shooting 
lightning, or, perchance, hell-fire. 

So he frightened me badly, though I had 
done nothing. He certainly had in him a 
strong element of the demonic, which worked 
upon him like a veritable fit of obsession. He 
would seem to revel in the tortures of the 
wicked, and he loved to set forth what he 
called the justice of God in lurid fireworks. If 



PRESIDENT FINNEY. 93 

it be the function of the devil to punish the 
diabolic, he certainly assumed that part in his 
pulpit at times. Terror-striking he was, at 
any rate, and the panic-stricken students 
would flock into his fold with a great sense of 
relief. Very brusque he was sometimes in 
speech, an'd many anecdotes were told of his 
keen sayings. A cutting wit he had, capable 
of getting savage. Yet he sometimes got back 
his own. A certain young lady had resisted 
his preaching and his private admonitions, 
and had refused to join church. One morn- 
ing he met her, and exclaimed : ^ ^ Good morn- 
ing, thou child of the Devil." ''Good morn- 
ing, father," was her reply. This anecdote is 
one of the world's and has been often told of 
others ; but the young lady ought to have said 
it if she did not. 

He is still regarded as a saint at Oberlin, 
but I have to think of Dante 's Inferno when- 
ever I remember him. Genius he had, but of 
the damnatory kind. This was one of his fa- 
vorite texts: ''Ye generation of vipers, how 
can ye escape the damnation of hell ! " As a 
young man and as a great revivalist he had 
a whirlwind, or an atmosphere of magnetic 
forces about him, which he himself could not 
always control. Those strange religious ap- 
pearances accompanied him everywhere. He 
would go into a place, and his immediate per- 



94 A WRITER OF BOOEt^. 

sonal influence was felt. It is recorded that 
lie stepped into a factory, and all, master and 
operatives, left work and improvised a re- 
vival meeting. Certain towns in Central New 
York underwent a complete revolution 
through his preaching. 

Thus the individual gets hold of influences 
in the realm of nature and spirit which are all- 
subduing for the time. This is a personal 
power which is commanded by all great men 
in their great moments — orators, artists, 
poets, musicians, as well as preachers. Fin- 
ney called it the Holy Spirit, and put himself 
into communication with it by prayer. One 
thing is certain : the individual in such a state 
is much more than himself — he is the conduit 
of a universal power, and every man in his 
presence feels it. People would fall down in a 
swoon and become as rigid as death, would 
cry and scream and moan. In fact, Finney in 
his young days had often to guard against his 
own power, and got afraid of it, dismissing 
meetings and sending people home. 

It is a power, I may repeat, recognized in 
all great men when they do great things great- 
ly. Chiefly it is known and portrayed by that 
knower of the divine, old Homer. All peoples 
in one way or other have called this power 
divine. Indeed, Homer builds his poem upon 
it, for whenever the God descends to help the 



PREkiIDEl\T FINNEY. 95 

mortal, there i^ just this influence at work, 
and when the God quits the individual, then 
he is but an individual, often very weak and 
finite, even less than the ordinary run of men. 
Enthusiasm the old Greeks called it, also, 
with a God both in the word and in the thing. 

Ancient Socrates had in mind some such 
power, suggesting, impelling, forbidding, 
when he spoke of his demon. Not a devil by 
any means, though the power may become 
devilish, negative, destructive. In fact, the 
power is dual, both positive and negative, di- 
vine and diabolic, as the universe has these 
two elements, just to make it truly one. The 
good and bad spirits often named, yet at last 
one spirit, it is a phase of the great riddle 
which theology, philosophy, poetry, try to 
solve. This force we may call the demonic, 
both of God and of Satan. In his loft}^ moods 
it seizes the individual and makes him its 
bearer, transforming him into a doer of won- 
ders far beyond his own unaided power. 

This power, then, Finney possessed, the de- 
monic; or, rather, he was the vehicle of it. 
He possessed it, or it possessed him, in its 
dual nature, bursting forth at times with the 
tenderest emotion, love, music, humanity; 
then, with terrific denunciation of the wicked, 
with a fierce frenzy that fairly gloated in the 
sufferings of the damned, in which the awful 



96 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

refrain could often be heard : ^ ' Ye generation 
of vipers, liow can ye escape tlie damnation of 
hell 1 ' ' His diabolic fit would become as lurid 
as Dante 's Inferno ; indeed, I have often com- 
pared him to Dante, who also had this dual 
demonic nature intensified to the very oppo- 
sites of hell and heaven. One of his sayings 
is handed down of the sinner who would 
^ ^ climb to heaven on a streak of lightning and 
cut God's throat. ' ' These two forces being in 
the man, caused a terrific internal conflict. 
Hence his spells of depression and despair; 
also his need of special preparation by prayer 
to put himself in harmony with the positive 
God in whom he believed. The question of 
women praying in church was one which the 
old school objected to. Finney's most power- 
ful allies, those most susceptible to his power, 
were women. To his honor be it said, no scan- 
dal ever stained his name, as far as ever I 
heard. 

Finney's prayer for rain is said to have 
once brought a shower before the services 
were over. Special providence he evidently 
believed in strongly. Certain miraculous 
events were connected with his preaching. 
Once he discoursed severely on borrowing 
tools, and spoke of his own experience. Every- 
body the next day brought to him their bor- 
rowed tools, things that had never belonged 



PRESIDENT FINNEY. 97 

to him. He was overwhelmed with tools of 
every description, some of which he had never 
seen and did not know the use of. Fairchild 
relates that he once prayed for God's blessing 
on the big Oberlin tent in which camp meet- 
ings were held. In half an honr a storm arose 
and blew it down. 

He usually would weep at the close of every 
sermon, showing a strong and somewhat un- 
controlled emotional nature. He had one 
habit not agreeable to me ; it may be called the 
sniffles. At a tender passage his voice 
would have a quiver in it ; then came a time 
of tears and desperate snuffling through his 
nose. But his delivery, his intonation, the 
quality of his voice, his gestures, were very 
happy. His language was very idiomatic, 
without effort, not flowery, without rhetorical 
embellishment, but terse, direct, ^' logic on 
fire,'' as he called it. He was not a scholar, 
did not know Greek and Hebrew, holding that 
a fair translation gives the same content in 
all tongues. Among the students he had his 
bitter critics. For instance, his habit of weep- 
ing at the close of his sermon was often de- 
clared not genuine — a mere stage trick per- 
formed by a good actor. This was a mistake, 
yea, a calumny, and showed ignorance of Fin- 
ney's true character and of the real source of 
his x^ower. This power under different forms 



98 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

I have felt since that time in the great books 
of the world. I must confess, however^ that 
Finney's manifestation of it never fully con- 
quered me, else I would have become a 
preacher, a revivalist, possibly a theologian, 
certainly not a writer of books such as I have 
written. Indeed, he never quite succeeded in 
bringing me into the church-fold, though once 
I came very near it, but concluded to stay out- 
side till I got good enough to enter — ^which 
never occurred. He could for a time make 
me very unhappy in preaching: ^'You, dear 
pupil, have done nothing but sin in getting 
your lessons this week without God's grace — 
nothing but sin in your study of Greek and 
Latin. ' ' But in a few hours I would react and 
plunge again into my classics with a consid- 
erable degree of happiness. Still I never could 
quite master the bitter contradiction he left 
in me 

Finney was, therefore, in my opinion, the 
original, elemental character throned in the 
Oberlin theocracy, and justly so, through his 
unique gifts, the great preacher, and the su- 
preme judge for his peculiar folk of the deep- 
est collision of his country and age. 



THE NEGRO BLACKSMITH. 99 

II. 

The Negro Blacksmith. 
Another character I must put here, also 
original and elemental in its way, and repre- 
sentative, I think, of a racial distinction. 
There was a very large colored population in 
Oberlin, brought thither by its educational ad- 
vantages for the black man, by its sympathy 
with him and by its protection of him in trou- 
ble. On the whole, it contained the better 
class of negroes, the more aspiring, more 
courageous, more enterprising. It may be 
mentioned here that Oberlin at the start was 
not altogether friendly to the colored brother. 
When the question came up for his first ad- 
mission to college, the board were evenly di- 
vided till Father Keep threw the final vote in 
his favor — a memorable act, with memorable 
consequences in many ways. One result was 
the phenomenon of a bi-racial town, two races 
living together in the same community on 
terms of general equality. Still the two 
streams would not intermingle socially, but 
flowed along side by side, without serious fric- 
tion, in the same channel. The most promi- 
nent colored man in town was the lawyer, 
John M. Langston, a fine speaker, gifted with 
striking eloquence in his range, which was the 
commonplaces of anti-slavery oratory. I cer- 



100 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

tainly was very fond of hearing liim discourse 
on his true topic; his enunciation of English 
was specially excellent. But for me he was not 
the typical negro of Oberlin; moreover, he 
was half white. As the Caucasians may be 
said to have had their genius in President 
Finney, so the Africans had their genius in a 
mechanic, humble but truly original, demonic 
also in his way — Blacksmith Jones. Thus the 
two lie together in my mind at least, each rep- 
resenting the supreme individual in each of 
the two strands joined in that bi-racial town. 
Undoubtedly the contrast between these two 
geniuses of Oberlin 's two races was very pro- 
nounced (as it ought to be), and, indeed, gro- 
tesque after a fashion. 

Going back to my first day in Oberlin at 
the graduation exercises, I must say that the 
speech which I now recollect best was that of 
young Mr. Jones, a negro and the sole gradu- 
ate of his color. Not that the speech amount- 
ed to much, according to my judgment then or 
now, but I remember him from the fact that 
he was the son of Blacksmith Jones, the 
strongest negro character in Oberlin, or any- 
where else, as far as my knowledge goes. I 
afterwards became well acquainted with 
Jones, the father, and I do believe, take him 
all in all, he was the one black genius of the 
whole community, and certainly the mightiest 
negro individuality I have ever met. 



THE NEGRO BLACKSMITH. 101 

For several years I passed his shop every 
day, going to and from the college. I would 
often drop in to hear the man talk. He was 
a perfect Hercules in strength, shape and 
stature, unquestionably the strongest man 
physically in the town ; indeed, I believe, from 
what I saw of him, stronger than any two men 
in the town. I noticed often that he rather ter- 
rorized his race. He had an enormous pair of 
lungs, like his own bellows; his voice brayed 
out like a trumpet, and he always talked loud, 
and was always discussing religion, politics 
and persons with great freedom. But that 
voice! The tones of any other man arguing 
with him seemed weak and piping in com- 
parison. Then the laugh, the negro laugh, 
exploding at intervals with a detonation 
which could be heard a long distance above 
all the din of anvil and hammer. 

The man had a great history, I think. He 
was born a slave in the South; he worked at 
his trade and bought himself free; then he 
came North and earned money enough to 
bring his wife and children. He settled at 
Oberlin, gave to each of his sons a college 
education and two trades — blacksmithing and 
gunsmithing. I have heard that there were 
^ve of these sons ; I know tliat one graduated 
the day I arrived in Oberlin, and there were 
two others in college. 



102 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

He, moreover, taught himself to read, as he 
told me, and was acknowledged to be a well- 
informed man, especially in politics. Now 
comes the strange fact : Politically he was a 
violent pro-slavery Democrat, and that, too, 
in Oberlin. He had a very low opinion of his 
own race, who nndonbtedly feared him, and 
always with great contempt spoke of them, at 
least when I heard him, as niggers. He utter- 
ly refused to take part in the famous rescue 
case at Wellington. I went into his shop not 
long after and asked him: "Well, Mr. Jones, 
did you go along to Wellington to help rescue 
your colored brother!'^ 

Jones fired up. "No brudder o' mine.'' 

^ ' Why, is not every colored man your broth- 
err' 

"What, dose niggas ? What are you talking 
about, man!" 

"And would you not help to free him of 
bondage ? ' ' 

"I say de niggah is not fit to be free." 

^ ^ But this man had escaped, and you would 
not see him kidnaped and taken back?" 

^ ' Let de blasted niggah be put where he be- 
longs. I would not lift a finger for him. ' ' 

He laid down his hammer and hoisted hi& 
big, brass-rimmed spectacles to his forehead, 
saying: "Ole Jones would help put him 
back, ' ' 



THE NEGRO BLACKSMITH. 103 

This was no doubt an extreme statement. 
He hardly meant it in view of his children 
and himself. It was a dash of his African 
bravado ; yet there can be no question of his 
low opinion of his own race. He was as black 
as any negro in Oberlin; he talked with the 
most pronounced accent of the Southern dar- 
key, yet he had that grotesque inconsistency 
of the African damning the African because 
he is an African. Jones, above all things in 
the world, wished to be a white man. He it 
was who said that he would be willing to be 
flayed alive if his new skin would grow white. 
That might be called his supreme aspiration. 
Though he owed so much to Oberlin, he was 
strongly antagonistic to the Oberlin ideal. 
His pattern was the Southern aristocrat. On 
the street he was the politest man in Oberlin ; 
his bow was perfect, and his cordial smile was 
happy-making to any human heart. He, 
though getting old, would work in his shop in 
the morning hours, and afternoons he would 
usually dress in his broadcloth suit and go 
down town. There he played the manner of 
the Southern gentleman to perfection, which 
sometimes became grotesque in a certain 
chivalrous deference, and even attention, to 
white ladies crossing the street. Off would 
go his hat if he knew them, and liis bald head 
would stoop, and he woiild assume an exqui- 



1Q4 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

site courtesy, not intrusive, certainly not 
offensive, but humorous. 

Not only in politics, but in religion lie would 
not conform to tlie Oberlin standard. I have 
heard him make fun of the early Oberlin com- 
munity, ^^when the people didn't eat nuffin/' 
^^so lean dey could stick de face down in 
a coffee-pot.'' At last an Episcopal church 
was established in the town, and straightway 
Jones turned thither and sat in the front seat, 
reading his prayers rather louder than any 
person in the congregation, with that leonine 
voice of his, louder than the rector. So I 
thought once or twice when I was there. Pass- 
ing with the crowd through the aisle, I 
addressed him: ^^Well, Mr. Jones, what are 
you doing here!" ^'Dis is de church I be- 
longed to in de Souf " — an aristocratic church 
for gentlemen. 

Thus he asserted himself against the politi- 
cal, religious and social tendencies of the 
community — a strong individuality. He is 
said to have kept his daughter in a kind of 
servitude, not at all believing in the Oberlin 
doctrine of female education; men only, his 
boys, were to have learning. An African 
king in prowess and in mind transplanted to 
Oberlin, he still retained a good deal of the 
spirit of Dahomey, and fought to the last the 
new tendency toward the emancipation of the 



THE NEGRO BLACKSMITH. 105 

negro, thougii lie was the first to take ad- 
vantage of it in his own case. 

During the war, and during my life in a 
Southern city, I have seen a good deal of the 
black brother and been in contact with him, 
but Jones still remains my African hero, and 
the only one. At Oberlin the negro was in the 
class-room and recited with the whites, but 
no hero presented himself, rather the reverse. 
I suppose I saw the best and heard them do 
their best; the impression of infirmity, of a 
certain adamantine limitation in the region 
of the skull, still remains with me, in spite of 
sympathy and good intentions on my part. 
Yet they too will evolve in the course of the 
centuries. 

Jones, I claim, was an important fragment 
of my Oberlin education. Certain possibili- 
ties of his race appeared in him, which I did 
not find then and have not found since in an^^ 
Ijlack man, though that may well be my fault. 
The negro question is still a leading one in 
American problems and is going to be for 
some time to come. That which the African 
shows himself so deficient in, compared with 
his Anglo-Saxon neighbor, is strength of in- 
dividuality; he manifests such a diminutive 
selfhood and so little assertion of it. But 
Jones is the grand exception; he clearly out- 
ranked in strength of individuality any white 



106 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

man of Oberlin, with the possible exception 
of President Finney. Thus he remains to me 
a hope ; yes, a prophecy of what his race may 
yet attain, in a better and more humane 
form, when it has more fully evolved — ^which 
evolution it should be given every reasonable 
chance of fulfilling. I may add here that 
Jones has left such a vivid and permanent 
impress upon me that I, a Writer of Books, 
have tried more than once to put him into 
writ; especially in the Freehurgers I have 
given a sketch of his character, though in a 
different environment from that of Oberlin. 
Passing his shop, I often recalled the lines of 
Bryant, I believe, which I first learned at 
Quaker Jesse's: 

Chained in the market-place he stood, 

A man of giant frame. 
Amid the gathering multitude 

That shrank to hear his name. 

III. 

Steuggles. 

The life of the student, especially in Ober- 
lin, at that time, was likely to stir up not a 
few inner perturbations which did not con- 
duce to study. Especially the political con- 
flict kept growing more intense, and I do be- 
lieve that Oberlin was on this matter the most 



STRUGGLES. 107 

sensitive spot in the country. The admin- 
istration of Buchanan was continually pushed 
by the South for a more vigorous execution of 
the Fugitive Slave Law; this of itself was 
enough to keep the town in an undercurrent 
of turmoil with its large population of blacks, 
among whom were always a number of run- 
aways. With their feelings a large majority 
of the whites more or less sympathized. Once 
I heard the old Squire of the town say: 
' ' This community stands on a volcano all the 
time." That was an excessive statement, the 
product of sudden excitement; still there 
were earthquaky tremors often going through 
the place, which would now and then pene- 
trate to the student ^s closet. 

Here I may mention some other conflicts 
more personal. I went at the opening of the 
fall term (in September, I believe) to the 
Principal of the Preparatory Department 
and handed him my credentials, which were a 
certificate of good moral character from a vil- 
lage clergyman at Mount Gilead. I was put 
into the Freshman Class in Latin and Mathe- 
matics, but was required to make up a year's 
work in Greek. All was new to me, the class- 
mates, the college buildings, and especially 
the large throngs of pupils, for Oberlin then 
had not far from one thousand students, most 
of whom belonged to the institution's lower 



108 A WRITER OF BOOK 8. 

classes. I had found a companion, and we 
pushed into study with a will. Two of my 
teachers became men of distinction, in fact, 
were then prominent: Professor Fairchild, 
afterwards President of the College, and Pro- 
fessor Monroe, afterwards Member of Con- 
gress and Minister to Brazil. 

And now the Oberlin strait-coat I began to 
feel. The supreme object of the institution' 
was to make the student religious. Very 
good; but the Oberlin method was by tre- 
mendous external pressure. The whole town 
was still organized somewhat in the spirit of 
a theocracy, and I have heard proclaimed 
from the pulpit there that the Mosaic scheme 
of social organization was the most perfect 
the world had ever seen, and was still the 
ideal toward which modern society ought to 
strive. The first phase of this external ec- 
clesiastical constraint was the enormous num- 
ber of religious exercises which students were 
required by the regulation of the college to 
attend: (1) Two sermons on Sunday, fore- 
noon and afternoon, usually pretty long ones. 
(2) The religious lecture (really another ser- 
mon) during the week, Thursday. (3) 
Prayers in the morning at the boarding house. 
(4) Chapel in the evening. (5) Every class 
recitation (averaging four a day) was opened 
with a religious exercise. These were all 



STRUGGLES. 109 

compulsory ; every student liad to give a rec- 
ord of himself in them once a week to the 
authorities of the college. Besides these 
compulsory exercises there were others, vol- 
untary indeed, but which a kind of public 
opinion enforced, if the student wished to 
stand well. Class prayer-meeting, young 
people 's . conference, any number of local 
services and prayer meetings, were scattered 
everywhere through the town and were ap- 
pealing to students as well as to citizens for 
support. 

Now I shall have to confess that all this 
mass of religious observance begat in me a 
protest from the start. I felt cramped, lim- 
ited by it, and I recollect how I used to run 
out of that town into the woods and fields for 
a breath of Nature, the great reliever. I could 
not help feeling that much of it was hollow, 
or at most a mere form; and that such rigid 
ecclesiasticism could only beget hypocrisy. I 
knew that external force will be circumvented 
by internal cunning — apparent submission 
there may be, but really secret disobedience, 
if not revolt. 

Equally certain is it that I was unhappy. 
The situation started in me a conflict which 
I could not solve. Was it my own hardness 
of heart, my inborn depravity? So I heard 
often from the pulpit. President Finney 



110 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

thundered at us and scared ns all with ter- 
rible denunciations and with his lurid pic- 
ture of the damned in Hell. But that fright 
again did not seem the right motive, and so I 
refused to be terrorized into Heaven. Still, 
I did not and could not take the attitude of 
antagonism, as some students did; I tried to 
be religious, but I could not travel that way 
to that goal. 

Another struggle which broke out at Ober- 
lin was with my emotional nature — that of 
the adolescent. In every class were young 
ladies of the same age, equal to the young 
men in ability, and, on the whole, more faith- 
ful to study. All of them were of superior 
training and breeding, and some of them not 
without beauty. In reading the classics with 
them the expurgated editions had to be ex- 
purgated over again by the professor, who 
would tell us to mark certain lines for omis- 
sion, when they were a little too free. So he 
called attention to the very matter which he 
tried to suppress, and roused curiosity, in me 
at least, to find out what was hidden in that 
little passage thus put on the little index ex- 
purgatorius. 

Very naturally, in the course of time one 
was selected. But I kept the choice hid in my 
heart. I attended to my studies, for therein 
lay my ambition and my hope. Still I had my 



STRUGGLES. Ill 

daily battle. Tlie fair image would dance be- 
fore me, and look faintly out of a page of 
Greek; but it would come out boldly from a 
mathematical theorem, for that wretched 
Geometry was hard for me and I did not 
like it, while the Greek was easy, and would 
rival any mistress in my affections. So I 
fought my feeling and my imagination with 
never more than a half -won victory. It af- 
fected my spirits so that I once ran away 
from the college and from the bewitching 
presence for some weeks to get back my peace 
of mind. 

I was silent because I saw the folly and the 
ridiculousness of the thing. Moreover, my 
room-mate showed the same emotion work- 
ing in all its extravagance, and he could not 
hold it in. He would come home from class, 
drive his fingers through his long yellow hair, 
or fondle his curly red beard and begin talk- 
ing. ^'I could never look up during Latin 
recitation but I caught the eyes of Miss 
Sookey So-so peeping at me. I tested the 
matter a dozen times, and every time I caught 
her. Finally I smiled and she blushed and 
smiled, too.'' ^'And that is the reason why 
you flunked in Latin this morning just on the 
passage I read over to you in advance." 
''Confound the Latin; the Professor hap- 
pened to call on me when my mind was the 



112 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

other way. But is not slie handsome I I am 
going to call on her to-night. ' ' 

The next day or the next week the swain 
had changed to another. Thus he was tossed 
day after day upon his emotions hither and 
yon, losing his time, and, as I knew, making a 
fool of himself. A young lady's glance meant 
a complete upsetting of him and he thought 
at once that she must be in love. He could 
not keep himself a secret, biit had to blab all 
what was passing within him, and ran his 
hand into his locks, aflame with the excite- 
ment of his own fancies. 

I have told this not to make fun of my com- 
panion, but to confess that I was in the same 
condition. I saw in him a picture of myself. 
I was just as susceptible as he to a young 
lady's glance or smile. But looking at him 
and hearing him, I resolved then and there to 
keep myself to myself, at least till the crisis 
came. Therein was begotten a habit of 
secrecy in matters of the heart which has 
fairly gone with me through life, and which 
I have had a good many opportunities to ex- 
ercise. But I am going now to let the matter 
out, and so have told on myself, but more 
than fifty years afterward. 

In another respect I differed from him. He 
passively resigned himself to the momentary 
impulse, and was borne off into the wildest 



STRUGGLES. 113 

fancies, wliereby the educational purpose of 
Ms life was lost. But I fought, fought with 
all my might, and it was a daily battle, hand 
to hand, often desperate ; for from the miser- 
able Mathematics my mind would glance off 
easily, and the place was at once supplied by 
revery, which conjured up a fair image flit- 
ting about me in all sorts of sweet vanities. 

Now I knew that this tendency in me was 
just the thing I had to master, more impor- 
tant than the mastery of Geometry or Horace. 
I may give myself the credit of having tackled 
in youth the problem with determination and 
held on — and I have been holding on ever 
since. But I should add by way of humility 
and truth that I never fully conquered. 

The question of the joint education of the 
sexes has been much discussed. I believe it to 
be an important part in every complete edu- 
cation. The young boy must get used to the 
young girl and both get used to each other. 
In mutual presence they are called upon to 
exercise the first restraint. The training of 
emotion and of imagination must be gone 
through, and their education is an important 
branch, even if not set down in the cur- 
riculum. I have always held that this was 
one of the advanced views in which Oberlin 
might justly take pride. To be sure, for some 
it is strong medicine. It may be questioned 



11^ A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

if my room-mate ought not to have gone to a 
monastic schooh By the way, in the class 
there rose a division, not sharply marked but 
noticeable, into the youths who sought ladies' 
society and those who remained aloof. In a 
bantering mood I called them the pMl- 
ogynists and the misogynists. To the lat- 
ter I belonged in the early part of my college 
course, though I had the hardest internal 
battles just then/ Unconsciously I went to 
work; the stake was the control of the feel- 
ing and imagination, not their eradication by 
any means. 

Another matter gave me some anxious 
hours in the course of the year. One or two 
of my friends had been brought before the 
faculty for smoking, which was against the 
rules of the institution. I knew of the fact, 
was a witness to it, for I was sometimes in 
their company when they did it, though I was 
not guilty of any breach myself. On the con- 
trary, the conduct of my friends met my dis- 
approval and I told them so. Not that it was 
a mortal sin to take a chew of dogleg or 
smoke a cob pipe, if a man wished, but on 
entering the institution we all gave a pledge 
not to use tobacco, and I was going to keep 
my promise, and I thought they should keep 
theirs. But the violation, though done secret- 
ly, got out, and the young people were cited 



STRUGGLES. 115 

before the faculty. I was afraid that I would 
be summoned as a witness, and I deliberated 
what I should do with no little perturbation. 
I came to the conclusion that I could not tes- 
tify in such a case. What if the faculty said : 
testify or be expelled. I concluded to suffer 
expulsion, even if it occurred just before 
graduation. Fortunately I was not called, 
though it was a very ugly situation. I have, 
as teacher, had to deal with similar cases, and 
it has been my plan to respect the point of 
honor in a boy not to betray what has been en- 
trusted to him, though it be a breach of dis- 
cipline. 

I may add here that I, as life-long teacher, 
still agree with Oberlin in the matter of sup- 
pressing the tobacco habit and the drink 
habit in the students of the college and the 
university. It has almost stood alone in this 
point as well as in others. To be sure, let 
there be no excess, not even of temperance, 
which can ^also become very intemperate. 
But the adolescent, most dangerous to him- 
self, needs some help in the control of such 
habits, yea, some restraint. I took with me 
no habits of the kind to Oberlin, and it looked 
out that I never acquired them — for which it 
has my lasting gratitude. From what I have 
seen in others, I believe that with my frail, 
but very nervous, organism, even a moderate 



116 A WRITER OF B00K8. ' 

use of tobacco would have wrecked me long 
ago, or at least would have halted my career 
as a Writer of Books. If I had lived, I would 
not be writing now, but smoking; and you, 
my reader, in turn, would have to be perusing 
some other book, which, I hope, you would 
deem a calamity. 

IV. 

LiTEKAEY Studies. 

Oberlin was not specially literary, but first 
religious and then political. Indeed, the Pro- 
fessor of Literature was not a literary man, 
but a politician. Still, **among some of the 
students could be found a few little specks of 
the love of letters. Toward these I naturally 
gravitated when I found them, for Literature 
had already become a strong fascination. 
Outside the regular course of collegiate 
studies I began a miscellaneous course of 
reading which probably developed my bent in 
life more than the prescribed work, which, 
however, was also of great value to me. My 
earliest dip into the greatest books of the 
race, the Literary Bibles, as I have elsewhere 
called them, took place at Oberlin, but not 
through the college or through any professor 
personally. Still, some stimulus must have 
been in the air. As this extraneous course in 
Literature turned out to be my most vital and 



LITERARY STUDIES. 117 

lasting interest, I shall set down some lead- 
ing factors in it, as far as I recollect them 
after so long a period. 

The literary spirit of the time therefore 
was working at Oberlin a little, though in a 
very weak fashion. Out of the thousand stu- 
dents there were two or three who read Emer- 
son and Carlyle. These students were sd 
marked by this one fact that they were known 
to the whole college. They were regarded as 
irreligious if not heretical, and possessed of 
a passing fashion, which was of no great mo- 
ment. They showed their cult in their essays, 
and they were dominated by the style of their 
favorite authors, which made their exercises 
sound very different from those of the rest 
of us. 

Of Emerson I doubt if a single professor 
had any sympathetic knowledge, or if he had, 
he kept it silent. The Concord sage had at 
that time taken deep hold of New England 
thought, and his has been the greatest lit- 
erary influence of the land. At present there 
is hardly a New England writer of the 
younger generation who does not betray 
Emerson's style, thought or his knack. Hard- 
ly a clerical New Englander of any denomina- 
tion can be found who does not show the 
Emersonian influence, or at least mannerism. 
Emerson is with truth counted the greatest 
literary power in American literature. 



118 A WRITER OF B00K8. 

Now I shall have to confess that I never 
felt it in myself — let it be counted to my de- 
ficiency. At college I peeped into his essays, 
but I did not or could not catch hold. One of 
the Emersonians was a particular friend of 
mine and a young man of special literary 
gift; but in spite of his example I remained 
on the outside, and there I have remained 
ever since, no doubt through my own limita- 
tion. For Emerson has brought spiritual 
freedom to so many people that there is no 
denying him. Only he did not bring it to me. 

Different is the relation of Carlyle to my 
development. At college I first saw his col- 
lected miscellanies, and, as far as I know 
I first heard his name there. I tried to 
read some of them, but with little success. I 
could not surmount the oddities of thought 
and style. I had been trained to the Latin 
manner of the eighteenth century, of which 
Addison was the master in prose. I had some 
taste for other books, yet within limits. But 
at college Macaulay was my favorite; the 
keenest delight I thrilled with from his es- 
says. The article on Milton, the first one, has 
a power which Mathew Arnold has ridiculed, 
but which he really does not appreciate. I 
believe still it is one of the best educational 
books for boys between sixteen and twenty, 
or for men of the same degree of ripeness. 



LITERARY STUDIES. 119 

Here again the style captivated me. The 
short, snappy sentences, the epigrammatic 
thrnst, the rnsh of the narrative, even the 
partisanship, takes hold of the boy and trains 
him. 

Yet I outgrew Macaulay at college, and 
never have been able to go back to him since 
with any lasting satisfaction. There is still 
a fascination in his manner, yet he is often 
shallow, sees but a part, hence is bnt a par- 
tisan. His power lies in the realm of the 
Anglo-Saxon understanding to which he 
strongly appeals. 

It must have been at least several years 
after I left college that Carlyle took hold of 
me. I came to him indirectly through his 
sources, through German Literature, not di- 
rectly through himself, and the influence has 
staying power. In spite of caprices, follies, 
prejudices, he remains the greatest elemental 
force of the century in English Literature. 
As such he works and is going to work for a 
while yet — not through his ideas, which are 
often absurd and often commonplace. 

Emerson and Carlyle as prose writers 
stand far ahead, in literary influence, of the 
two poets, Longfellow and Tennyson, their 
contemporaries. Both these poets were read 
a little in my college days, but without mak- 
ing much stir, or producing an influence. In- 



120 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

deed, there is not much of a Gospel in either. 
The chief distinction in both poets, though 
otherwise very different, is the form, the 
poetic manner, whereas the true poetic mes- 
sage must lie in the content, in the thing said. 
Hence their imitators write quite as good as 
they, having picked the dress, or Tennyson 
himself complains, having got ^ ' the seed. ' ' 

Yet Emerson and Carlyle are by no means 
the most popular of English writers. Ma- 
caulay is far more read to-day; in fact 
Macauley is sometimes said to stand next to 
the Bible and Shakespeare among Anglo- 
Saxon people round the globe. But that does 
not make him the greatest influence, because 
his work lacks two things: depth and the 
spirit — both of which are found in Emerson 
and Carlyle. 

Oberlin was not much of a place for poetry. 
The surroundings of nature had little va- 
riety, little of nature's ecstasies; no moun- 
tains, no river or lake or sea, no antiquities in 
castle or church. Then the rigid Puritanic 
spirit rather frowned on art. If Oberlin had 
any poem, it was Paradise Lost. I read in 
that book a great deal, and committed many 
portions of it to memory, which I have long 
since forgotten. Milton is not one of the su- 
preme Literary Bibles of the race, though he 
is probably to be placed in the second class 



LITERARY STUDIES. 121 

of great poets. I was still very full of Mm 
when I first came to St. Louis, but Brock- 
meyer quite knocked him out of me by a single 
thump of dialectical sarcasm. 

In the spring of 1858 I began reading the 
Odyssey in Greek with my college class. As 
I now look back to that event, I see it to have 
its place salient in the Writer of Books. I 
soon learned the Homeric forms so that they 
never left me, and the Odyssey has been in 
many ways one of my chief literary com- 
panions. My class read only the first four 
books, but I went on, and in the following 
winter^completed the reading of the poem in 
the original. Thus I took my first possession 
of one of the world's Literary Bibles, though 
it was the last one of them all upon which I 
finished a commentary. Of course, I read it 
then for the story, the pictures, the simple 
outline, and also for that peculiar fascination 
which the Greek tongue has always exercised 
over me. The miraculous voyage of Ulysses 
is likely to remain the greatest of all fairy- 
tales, for such it is. 

It was not till some eight years later that 
I thought of putting a content into these won- 
derful stories. I rejected the idea of allegory, 
but Mr. Brockmeyer on an occasion gave a 
hint of what the work meant, of what the old 
singer was trying to say to these early 



122 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

peoples. Then I began truly to get into, if 
not underneath, the whole poem. But the 
first resignation to that wonderful world was, 
and always will be, the primal charm. My 
earliest literary interpretation was that of 
the Odyssey. 

It was also in my Freshman year when I 
bought my first copy of Shakespeare in one 
volume, containing all his works. I had pre- 
viously read many extracts from the speeches 
of his characters, but never an entire play. 
In the old School Reader (M'Gutfey's) were 
a number of passages which I recollect of 
poring over with an intense feeling of their 
power during my boyhood. Of course, I had 
heard that Shakespeare was the greatest 
poet of all, that was in the air ; so I longed to 
try to see if I could find out why he was 
greatest. 

But where shall I begin the big volume? 
Wliile I was still deliberating upon this ques- 
tion and turning over the leaves, a class- 
mate, who was several years older than I, for 
I recollect he had quite a beard while I had 
none, dropped into my room and saw the new 
book, and began talking about it. ^^Do you 
know," said he, ^' which is the best play in 
that volume?" ^'No, but I would like to find 
out." ^'It is Julius C^sar." ^'Well, I shall 
tackle that." So I began with the best play 



LITERARY STUDIES. 123 

for boys in all Shakespeare; indeed, the best 
introduction to his works. Curiously that 
play, by a species of selection, came to me 
first, as it does now to hundreds of boys in the 
schools, through a regular text-book. 

.While I am dealing with these matters, I 
may state that I took now my first readings 
in Dante, not the whole of it, but some cantos 
of the Inferno. Dante's picture of Hell and 
the damned have always had some peculiar 
fascination for the Puritanic mind; it was a 
common book upon students' shelves. Then 
it had a certain degree of kinship with Para- 
dise Lost. This kinship was brought into 
stronger relief by Carey's translation of 
Dante in Miltonic blank-verse. But I came 
upon Dr. John Carlyle 's translation of the In- 
ferno into English prose, with Italian text 
printed in conjunction. This book appealed 
to me very strongly. I could read Italian a 
little, and with the aid of the translation I 
began to work into the spirit of Dante. I can 
truly say that thus early I felt his style, and 
held in memory many of the lines of the first 
cantos of the Inferno. 

Thus it happened that the three books upon 
which I was to spend such an important part 
of my life I began in my first year at college, 
all in their original tongues. None of these 
books or their tongues have ever slipped 



124 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

away from me. Goethe's Faust, the fourth 
Literahle Bible, I did not begin at present, 
but while still at college two years later; I 
read the First Part of it in the original with 
much help, however, from Brooke's transla- 
tion. 

I shall not soon forget the first time I was 
called upon to speak my piece before a large 
audience. It was a set oration which every 
student in the collegiate department had to 
write, learn by heart, and speak on a given 
occasion before the entire body of students, 
visitors and professors. Each class furnished 
its contingent, and there was a good deal of 
rivalry. The one who made the best speech 
was for the time being a marked man. There 
was no exercise in the institution which 
spurred me to so much effort, and I attribute 
some of my literary tendencies to that exer- 
cise. At the same time it was a good prac- 
tice in oratorical delivery, and I then in- 
tended to be a public man, a lawyer probably. 

Such is the ambition of nearly every Ameri- 
can boy ; he is going to be a speaker and sway 
the multitude with the golden gift of elo- 
quence. About this time I bought The Works 
of Edmund Burke, and read portions of them 
with an intense delight. The speech to the 
Electors of Bristol seemed to me then to be 
oratorical perfection. The brilliant passages 



LITERARY STUDIES. 125 

I knew by heart, and daily I would dip into 
his speeches and fish out all the glorious sen- 
tences, paragraphs and images. For it was 
Burke's imagination that took hold of me 
mightily. The image of Hyder Ali swooping 
down upon the Carnatic (Speech on the Na- 
bob of Arcot's Debts) impressed me more 
strongly than anything that I had ever read. 
His sympathy with the Americans in their 
conflict with Great Britain was another bond. 
Still his political speculations took less hold 
on me than his literary power. His life, writ- 
ten by Pryor, I read and studied with great 
love and care. In my line of literary stars 
Burke succeeded Macaulay (I recollect the 
latter 's death affected me deeply in 1859). 

In the meantime two ancient orators had 
become known to me, Aeschines and Demos- 
thenes, both of whom were studied in the 
Greek course of the college. The latter espe- 
cially took hold of me in his speech ^ ' On the 
Crown," which demands for its proper un- 
derstanding quite an accurate knowledge of 
Greek history and politics during the decline 
of Hellenic freedom. The power of the Greek 
orator I felt, as well as his patriotism and 
moral force. I devoured all the literature I 
could find about him; especially I read Plu- 
tarch's Life with delight. Also I obtained a 
Greek edition of his speeches and read (with 



126 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the help of translation) On the Embassy, 
as well as the Olythiacs and the Philippics. 
I even went so far as to commit certain por- 
tions of the Philippics to memory, and to re- 
peat them aloud in my morning walks. These 
often extended to the neighboring woods, 
where I alone would try my voice, declaim- 
ing to the trees, somewhat like Demosthenes 
on the sea-shore. Whereat people passing 
have heard the sound and have stared at me, 
thinking I was crazy. One little boy, I recol- 
lect, crawled up stealthily without my seeing 
him, and at last stepped out in front of me 
from a stump, asking: ^'What are you 
preaching to these trees for? They are not 
sinners." 

On this literary path I traveled, the ora- 
torical, for a year or more, with full intensity. 
Burke and Demosthenes, the greatest ancient 
and the greatest modern orator, were my 
chosen friends. It must be understood that 
there was no full or exhaustive study of 
either ; simply I culled what took hold of me, 
passages of power, of imagination, of beauty, 
and chiefly of demonic energy. Cicero never 
captured me; but I looked frequently into 
some others — Chatham, Sheridan, Pitt, Sir 
James Mackintosh, Erskine, Lord Brougham 
— all of which were found in a book then well 
known — Goodrich's British Eloquence. 



LITERARY STUDIES. 127 

There was not at that time, as is now, the 
special study ; one was left to follow his bent, 
after getting his lessons in the prescribed 
course. Special investigation by scientific 
methods is the cry at present, almost un- 
known then. The old way has its advantages ; 
it leaves the individuality of the student in 
this line largely to himself, and so he may 
trifle away his time, or freely find what he 
most craves spiritually. The oratorical stage 
was in me and had to come out. I gave ex- 
pression to it in quite an elaborate and en- 
thusiastic essay on Demosthenes which I read 
before the Literary Society. 

The investigations by which I sought to 
get a conception of the times during which 
the orations of Demosthenes were delivered 
threw me upon Greek History. Thus I came 
to Grote. His later volumes I read through 
with care as pertaining to my immediate 
study, but I soon found that every set of cir- 
cumstances presupposed a preceding set, and 
so I began to work into Greek History as a 
totality. Of course, I had studied the out- 
lines of Greek History previously, but in 
Grote the whole thing began to live as never 
before. As I had to have at hand my instru- 
ment, so I made up my mind to purchase a 
Grote. It was in twelve volumes (Harper 
.Edition), and the sum was a little heavy for 



128 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

one outlay, but at last I found a student who 
had a copy of which he had grown tired, and 
I began to dicker with him and obtained it by 
exchanging some books and adding some 
cash. 

I read in it a good deal, by rote and also ir- 
regularly; at last a curious ambition took 
hold of me : I must master not only that His- 
tory but its sources, especially the Greek His- 
torians. I recollect the idea had been grow- 
ing on me, for I had already delved in por- 
tions of Herodotus by myself. But now I 
went to work in earnest at my first real his- 
torical study, which, by the way, was the first 
Historian, the father of History. I made a 
prolonged grapple with total Herodotus in 
Greek, conjoined with Grote and with Rawlin- 
son's Translation. 

This study of Herodotus has had an impor- 
tant influence upon me in various ways. It is 
one of the books to which I have often re- 
curred since, and I still deem it one of the 
most important of world-books. In it we see 
the historic consciousness arising; the grand 
dualism between Orient and Occident, the 
deepest and most significant in all History, is 
really the theme of his work, which thus re- 
counts the first great historic fight between 
East and West. Herodotus is one of those 
books whose value must continue to grow as 



LITERARY STUDIES. 129 

man moves forward and obtains a more pro- 
found knowledge of his destiny. It still re- 
mains the greatest historical book which has 
been transmitted down the ages. Very dis- 
tinctly and decidedly is it to be placed above 
Tlmcydides in universal import. 

Herodotus was not touched in our Greek 
course at college, but some vague sense of 
its meaning haunted me and I grappled with 
it and never seriously stopped till I had read 
the whole of it in the original. Of course, my 
chief interpreter was Grote, who dominated 
me then with his jolain utilitarian mind, his 
rationalizing tendency and rigid scrutiny of 
everything unhistorical. Grote gave me a 
great training in that wonderful work of his, 
and it still has excellences unapproached. 
Yet I now see it has great defects. Grote has 
little or no sense of art. Yet he has to write 
of the Greeks, who, of all the peoples before 
or since, are just the art-people. Grote has 
no poetry, no idealism, very little feeling for 
beautiful form in style and speech. His think- 
ing springs from the school of Mill, not very 
Greek, and he is a sensist in philosophy. In 
general what we call the ideal side of the 
Greek world is not to be found in Grote. He 
is also somewhat of a partisan, yet in the 
right direction. Such was the book which for 
about two years was my constant companion. 



130 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

In tlie junior yfear, spring of 1860, I had a 
little disagreement with my class, and I left 
and went home to Mount Gilead. On the 
whole, this act of mine was a caprice, at least 
the provocation was small, and I have always 
regretted the act, though I defended it warm- 
ly in the first impulse. But it was a strong 
lesson for me. I found out the nature of 
caprice which has always been one of my 
fiends, and still is not dead, after many 
thumpings. 

But having taken the step, I resolved to get 
what profit I could out of my time. I could 
now finish two other Greek Historians ; I had 
a year free, though I was compelled to teach 
part of the time for a little cash. This year, 
when I was 19-20, I may call my historical 
year, devoted as it was wholly to the old 
Classic Historians, Greek and Eoman, and 
passed outside the college, which then had no 
department of History. It should be added 
that these Greek and Roman Historians have 
quite as lofty a literary place as historical. 
In studying them I was studying Literature 
as well as History. 

Still the historical element began to receive 
much the greater attention from me • on ac- 
count of the volcanic political events then 
bursting forth in our country. During my 
off year the Presidential campaign of 1860 



POLITICAL OBERLIN. 131 

and the election of Lincoln had occurred, fol- 
lowed by the secession of the Cotton States, 
the fixing on Sumter, and then by the Presi- 
dent's call for troops. That was a succession 
of mighty occurrences upon which all History 
might well write a commentary. I was spe- 
cially studying ancient events, but it seemed 
to me that in those remote acts I could feel a 
common throb with the pulsations of our own 
land. Then the political conflict or dualism 
of the time was very intense at Oberlin, and 
I had not failed to appropriate it inwardly. 

V. 

Political Obeelin. 

This is a great theme, and I wish I might 
do justice to it. In my judgment, political 
Oberlin has been of far greater significance 
to the world than religious Oberlin, though 
this statement would probably be scouted by 
the unadulterated Oberlinite, and the author 
of it set down on the list of the damnables. 
Indeed, religion there had in my time a de- 
cided political tinge, and also education. 
Neither of them, in my view, were damaged 
by the coalition. The period of my college 
course ran on the very topmost wave of Ober- 
lin 's political activity and importance. After 
the war she might well say that her principle 



132 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

had practically trmmphed, and that politics 
must henceforth mean less in her work. But 
during my quinquennium there was a steady 
rise of the political tide up to my graduation 
day; that conflict within her and also outside 
of her kept grinding with fiercer and fiercer 
energy till it whelmed us all — professors, stu- 
dents and community — into its maelstrom. 
In fact, her conflict was rapidly becoming that 
of the Nation, but in her bosom it was sub- 
limated to the last degree of bearable in- 
tensity. ■ Thus she became truly typical of the 
time and the people; yea, the most typical 
town of the land, viewed in this one concen- 
trated aspect. Hence Oberlin has won a sig- 
nificant place in the history of that period; 
she cannot be omitted from any account which 
shows the deeper sources of the Civil War. 

While a student at Oberlin I passed 
through two rescues of fugitive slaves — the 
one on the spot itself, the other many miles 
distant from it, in a place where I happened 
to be at the time. In neither case did I share 
in the act itself or know of it beforehand ; but 
immediately afterwards I was involved along 
with the whole community in its reverbera- 
tions, inner and outer, oft-repeated, pro- 
longed and agonizing. I must give some ac- 
count of these events, as I deem them a part 
of my education as a Writer of Books, since 



POLITICAL OBERLIN. 133 

in one forK/ or other I more than once have 
expressed them by the printed page. 

There was always a good deal of political 
excitement at Oberlin, owing to its pro- 
nounced anti-slavery position. But when I 
arrived in 1857 the Presidential election was 
past history, and everybody had settled down 
to a four years' quiet. Still, the town was 
inflammable, having such a large colony of 
negroes, many of whom were fugitives, hence 
living in a kind of dread of capture and of 
kidnapping. A suspicious stranger in the 
place would be watched, and a rumor would 
set the black quarter in a ferment, while the 
whites were not far behind if a Southerner 
should be found lurking about. The authority 
of Buchanan's Administration did not inspire 
much respect, and the Federal Constitution 
was not Oberlin's political Bible. 

Everything was going on in a quiet way 
when one afternoon in the Fall of 1858 word 
was brought to town that several men were 
seen dashing toward Wellington in a wagon 
with a person of color, evidently having the 
design to take the train there for Cleveland 
in order to bring the negro before the United 
States Commissioner, who would send him 
l)ack to slavery legally. At once the people 
were afire; white and black rushed toward 
Wellington to rescue the captive. They 



134 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

found the United States officers with the prey 
at the hotel, where the building was, as it 
were, stormed without bloodshed, and the 
black man set free. 

The outcome was that a number of citizens 
of Oberlin were arrested and were ordered to 
Cleveland to jail, among them one Professor. 
They obeyed the writ and went to prison. I 
was not in Oberlin that autumn, but the next 
spring I was on hand and passed through the 
strangest social excitement of my life. The 
Government of the United States had ar- 
rested and were trying to punish men for do- 
ing an act of purest humanity. A free coun- 
try was seeking to convict men for giving 
freedom to a human being. The institutional 
order was in a conflict with the very thing 
which it ought to secure. The Constitution, 
as interpreted by the highest tribunal, was 
arrayed against the conscience of most men 
in the North. 

The situation gave me much to think about, 
nay, it was painful at times to me. It has left 
such an impression upon me that to this day 
I see the war growing out of this typical 
event; typical, for it was transpiring every- 
where. It went inside of me and cut me in 
two. I was by nature a lover of law and a be- 
liever in the Constitution, yet equally certain 
was it to me then that I could not obey the 
Fugitive Slave Law. 



POLITICAL OBERLIN. 135 

The trial took place at Cleveland, and every 
np and down was felt like an electric shock at 
Oberlin. The newspapers were eagerly read, 
the evidence of the witnesses minutely 
scanned, the speeches of the lawyers carefully 
perused. The community showed a scission 
in itself. There was in Oberlin an element 
antagonistic to the prevailing political ten- 
dency of the place, and some of these people 
appeared at the trial. Study went on, yet in- 
terest in it was largely absorbed by the 
greater drama of life. 

A large meeting was held at Cleveland 
while the prisoners were in jail. The os- 
tensible object was to consult about the 
prisoners. The sheriff was friendly, the city 
was friendly, yet the men were deprived of 
their liberty. I recollect well the fiery speech 
of Giddings. He proposed to take the prison- 
ers out at once, and asked a committee to 
meet him at the hotel. Many thought that he 
meant violence. But more sober and wiser 
counsels prevailed. Governor S. P. Chase 
was present, and, though an abolitionist and 
deeply sympathetic, he spoke for the su- 
premacy of the Law. On the other side Judge 
Will son of the United States Court peered 
out of a third-story window of the Custom 
House, which overlooked the meeting on the 
square below. Some men shook their fists at 



136 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

him, in sport probably, wliicli miglit have be- 
come serious. 

At last, after two trials and condemnations, 
the rest of the prisoners were released. One 
of the Kentuckians had been arrested for kid- 
naping, and a kind of exchange took place. 
No doubt the authorities were tired of the 
trial and of the excitement. There was great 
popular indignation, which it was policy to 
allay. S'o the Oberlin prisoners came home 
in triumph, and were received at the church 
with speeches and festivities, and a grand 
parade with music. 

But this was a small affair compared to 
what soon followed. Simeon Bushnell, a 
printer of Oberlin, was one of the most active 
of the rescuers, and was put on trial, con- 
demned to a fine and an imprisonment of 
some weeks. When his time expired it was 
agreed to give him a rousing reception on his 
return home, in which reception all the West- 
ern Eeserve should participate. A large dele- 
gation came from Cleveland, headed by the 
Heckers, a famous brass band of that day; 
J. R. Giddings did not fail, always a strong 
personality, though a Northern fire-eater. 
All gathered into the large Brick Church, 
where they were received by a grand chorus 
of singers with big organ, with flags waving 
and horns blowing, while at the head of the 



POLITICAL OBERLIN. 137 

procession marclied thin, pale, consumptive 
Simeon Bushnell — really marching for a few 
hours that day at the head of the World's His- 
tory. 

Every speech turned on one topic, the sen- 
timents were voiced in one way: the protest 
of humanity and religion against slavery. But 
slavery was strongly intrenched in the Law, 
and in the Nation ; there could not help being 
a violent undercurrent against established 
Law in favor of another Law which took the 
name of Higher Law, or the Law of God. The 
individual, the community, indeed the whole 
people, were in a process of education toward 
smiting the established institutional order. 

Finally Simeon Bushnell was called upon 
for a speech. The little man arose, and be- 
gan in high tones like a woman's voice; he 
grounded his conduct upon Scripture, which 
commanded us to do unto others as we would 
have others do unto us. And then he con- 
cluded: "If I were called upon to do the 
same thing over again, even after this pen- 
alty, I would do it, so help me God. ' ' At this 
the whole church, galleries above and seats 
below, upsprung, cheered, shouted, waved 
handkerchiefs, amid a tremendous commotion 
in which all joined for a moment. Then the 
vast choir rose, like a cloud in the skies, and 
sang the Marseillaise, in the midst of the ap- 



138 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

plause. Then it was to me a most exalted 
phenomenon; but the recollection of it now 
takes a peculiar color, for I heard the same 
music played and sung more than a quarter of 
a century afterwards with equal fervor and 
with a more desperate purpose by the An- 
archists of Chicago on a memorable occasion 
when I went into their haunts just before the 
hanging of Spies and his associates. Was 
there something of anarchy in the Oberlin 
spirit 1 Each Chicago anarchist insisted upon 
his right of judging for the popular weal and 
defied the majority. Oberlin appealed to the 
right of individual conscience against Law 
and was going toward the same goal, yet by 
a different way — for one was religious, the 
other atheistic. 

When Simeon Bushnell had ended, Gid- 
dings (old Josh) arose, white-haired, with 
ploughed features, lit up by a marvelously 
illuminated face. He grasped Bushnell by 
the hand and gave utterance to this senti- 
ment: ''Simeon Bushnell, I have been pre- 
sented to Monarchs, Dukes, Lords, in my 
time, but never have I felt as great honor as 
I now do in taking your hand.'' Once more 
the audience stood up and shouted and 
stormed, and the prodigious din seemed to 
pass into music as the choir rose again and 
sang. 



POLITICAL OBERLIN. 139 

Such was tlie greatest day I saw at Oberlin ; 
I was carried off, and I hardly knew whether 
there was anything established in the coun- 
try or not, whether there was any Law. There 
was, indeed, no illegality done, or even pro- 
posed, but the spirit, the sweep was: down 
with slavery, .though supported by Law. Poor 
Simeon Bushnell, the hero of that day, I saw 
fall down, not many months after, on the 
steps of the Second Church and cast up great 
mouthfuls of blood, which stained pavement 
and garments ; thence he was carried home in 
the agonies of death. Consumption had 
marked him, and the premonition he doubt- 
less felt on the day of his triumph. 

In the fall of 1860 I was called to teach at 
Iberia College. It was a small copy of Ober- 
lin, having colored students and a strong anti- 
slavery sentiment. Here again I was destined 
to pass through the excitement of another 
rescue. Late one evening word was brought 
to the village that a posse of iTnited States 
deputy marshals had seized a runaway slave, 
and was hurrying him off to the railroad sta- 
tion on the way to Columbus. A mob of 
armed citizens overtook the posse, scattered 
it, caught two or three of the officers, and tied 
them and whipped them. Tlien they were set 
free. There was a little fusilade of firearms, 
but nobody was hurt, The escaped part of 



140 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the marshals walked through the country, 
which was everywhere excited, but they at 
last got avzay from the angry crowd in pur- 
suit. President Gordon of Iberia College did 
not fail at the whipping of the marshals, and 
remarked to them that they had not received 
half their dues. 

Once more I observed how it goes against 
the grain of a community to see a human 
being seized, manacled and hurried off to 
slavery. Democrats as well as Republicans 
took part in the rescue. For many miles 
around the country was stirred up. As I 
walked home in the fields three days after- 
wards, I started quite an excitement, being 
taken for a ' ' nigger thief. ' ' 

On the part of the Government, it seemed 
a kind of bravado, a challenge to arms. I 
think that the South or its leaders at Wash- 
ington wished to make trouble. Well, they 
succeeded at last, to their terrible cost and 
ours, too. More than anything else this at- 
tempted kidnaping of runaways brought the 
matter home to every man's door. Ohio would 
not have concerned herself much about slav- 
ery in Virginia; it was none of her business 
and was allowed by the Constitution. Slav- 
ery would have been in the South to-day but 
for the Fugitive Slave Law. But the South- 
ern leaders seemed to want a pretext for dis- 



POLITICAL OBERLIN. 141 

solving the Union, hence these useless hut ex- 
citing attempts. 

In due season the United States Marshal in 
person appeared at Iberia with warrants for 
the arrest of those who had participated in 
the outrage done to his deputies. It was known 
when he was coming, he alighted from the 
train and walked rapidly to the village and 
thence to the college building. There was a 
quick scattering of the students implicated; 
one darted out of the backdoor as the Mar- 
shal entered the front door. The only mem- 
ber of the faculty who was on the ground at 
the rescue was the President already men^ 
tioned. Word was brought to him that the 
Marshal was in the adjacent building, asking 
for his house. At first he refused to flee, say- 
ing that he had done no wrong; but friends 
and his wife prevailed upon him to slip out 
into the fields. 

Shortly afterwards I was speaking to Pro- 
fessor Henry. The Marshal was returning 
from the President's house without his prey. 
I asked: ''Gordon declared he would not flee; 
do you know where he is f ' ' Yes, ' ' he replied 
with a laugh, ''I see him now." I looked 
around everywhere in surprise and said: 
' ' What do you mean I " ' ' Do you want to see 
himT' ''Yes." "Well, yonder he goes," 
and pointed to a man fully half a mile distant 



142 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

leisurely walking through a stubblefield. He 
gave me a wink as the Marshal came up, while 
Gordon was still in sight, but soon disap- 
peared behind a knoll. 

I talked a good deal with Marshal Johnson 
in the course of the day, and I do not believe 
that he relished his business. To be sure, he 
maintained his side of the political question 
with argument, even with warmth and ges- 
ticulation. But he must have felt that an 
odious business had been put upon him rather 
unnecessarily, for Lincoln had been elected 
President, and the South was talking of seces- 
sion. The Marshal offered some compromise ; 
he would permit Mr. Gordon to appear before 
the court without any public arrest or impris- 
onment. In the course of the day Prof- 
Henry went out through the country and 
found Gordon and submitted the Marshal's 
propositions. Gordon refused to entertain 
them, and the Marshal left without a single 
prisoner. 

Gordon afterwards changed his mind, went 
of his accord to Cleveland and gave himself 
up, becoming a voluntary jail-bird. President 
Lincoln offered to pardon him, the only thing 
he could do under the law. But Gordon re- 
fused the pardon, saying he had done nothing 
wrong for which he could be pardoned. So 
he distinguished himself. The newspapers 



POLITICAL OBERLIN. 14S 

made a good deal of fun of this attempt at 
martyrdom when there was no stake, cer- 
tainly none then afire. The war was already 
on and no more slave-hunting in the North 
possible. Oberlin had already forestalled 
him in winning the prize of the martyr. 

During the fall and winter of 1860-61, I 
gave myself up to Greek History and spe- 
cially to Thucydides. The contrast of this 
historian to Herodotus was great, the histori- 
cal consciousness had arisen in full bloom, 
impartiality had become such a test that it 
was not easy to find to which party the his- 
torian belonged. The cool judicial under- 
standing is the merit of Thucydides, the 
mythical element has quite departed from his 
pages. Yet he is capable of deep undercur- 
rents of warmth and sympathy; mark his 
account of Pericles and of the Sicilian expe- 
dition. He represents a stage of the Greek 
world different from that of Herodotus, who 
had shown the union of Hellenism in its great 
struggle against Orientalism. Thus his book 
ends in a grand triumph, just about the 
grandest of the world's history, the happy 
conclusion of the mighty drama. But 
Thucydides turns in the opposite direction. 
Separation, inner conflict, and disintegration 
is the movement of his history and of the time 
it describes. That unity which Herodotus 



144 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

unfolds so effectively, a political unity in 
part, specially a unity in spirit, is going asun- 
der in the Peloponnesian war, which is the 
theme of Thucydides, who shows internal dis- 
ruption for twenty-eight long years, with fluc- 
tuations from one side to the other ; a weary, 
wasting disease which he carries out into its 
little details. The two Greek historians form 
together a great cycle of human development 
and transmit one supreme symbolic event for 
all time as well as the supreme record of the 
same. 

I saw what seemed the beginning of the 
same process in my own country. While I 
was reading Thucydides one Southern State 
after another began to move in the line of 
secession. The whole country seemed to be 
breaking up into pieces, and these pieces were 
showing fight toward one another. It was a 
time of dissolution and disintegration; the 
spirit of separation or apathy had complete 
hold of the land. The stoutest heart felt the 
craft going asunder, yet knew not where to 
turn. The early months of 1861 saw the move- 
ments in South Carolina and other States suc- 
cessively getting ready for separation and 
war. 

During those months I was at home in my 
father's house in Mount Gilead, having closed 
my engagement of teaching at Iberia. I read 



POLITICAL OBERLIN. 145 

Thucydides and the newspapers at the same 
time; both were telling one story, though in 
very different ways. When I contemplated 
the inner scission, war and desolation of those 
Greek States, my heart responded with a 
strong premonition of what was going to take 
place under my own eyes in my own time and 
country. The autonomy of the little Greek 
cities was our State's Rights in its excess ; the 
movement against the supremacy of any 
Greek State — Sparta or Athens — had some- 
thing of its counterpart in South and North. 
Separation meant indefinite turmoil and con- 
flict. The parallel could often be drawn in 
special instances. 

Thus with the strongest sympathy I pored 
over the second Greek Historian, and with 
lurid prophetic gleams into the future. The 
call for troops came, and our Peloponnesian 
war had opened. What was to be the out- 
come! That Sicilian expedition fitted out- 
with so great outlay and hope — we had it, too. 
Athens to a certain extent represented the 
North, .or the union of the Greeks ; Sparta the 
South, or autonomy, without union or with 
the slightest external bond. The one demo- 
cratic, the other aristocratic; on the question 
of slavery, both alike held slaves ; Sparta had 
distinctively her Helots. 

America and Greece thus seemed to be pass- 

10 



146 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ing through a similar historic cycle — toward 
unity first and then toward disintegration. 
Each principle in Greece was represented by 
an historian. Xenophon's Hellenica, which is 
a continuation of the work of Thucydides, I 
also read and so brought the Peloponnesian 
War to a close and joined it to the period* of 
the orators, specially of Demosthenes and 
Philip, with which period I had originally 
begun. Thus that marvelous sweep of His- 
tory, just about the most fruitful and import- 
ant which the race has enacted, from the Per- 
sian War to the battle of Chaeroneia, I had 
fairly mastered in its original sources and 
had felt the heart-beat of the men who were 
its chief recorders and speakers, some of 
whom had been also participators in the deed. 
I had not only read it, but felt it, as it ran 
parallel with the events and tendencies of my 
own time. It was a history to a degree re- 
enacted both in the nation and in me, for I 
had felt all the hopes, fears, and dark fore- 
bodings which a Greek of the fifth century, 
B. C, might have experienced. A waking 
nightmare continually weighed upon me, for 
I could not help thinking that possibly the 
same outcome was in store for my own coun- 
try. After long internal strife (another twen- 
ty-eight years) was it to sink down exhausted 
under a conquering monarch? Greece de- 



POLITICAL OBERLIN. 147 

stroyed herself in that Civil War. Will the 
same fate befall America ? The balance stood 
quivering, for a long time, but at last the de- 
cision came, and a new life and new order 
began out of the ashes of war. 

The Greeks were put under the discipline 
of subjection, and there have remained quite' 
to our time; many are still under the yoke. 
But America was transformed, renewed, en- 
franchised by her struggle, chiefly because she 
fought for a higher freedom. But each side 
in Greece was struggling to subject the other 
side, its own neighbor — hence an act suicidal 
by necessity. Both Athens and Sparta were 
tyrants in victory. Such was my historical 
training at this time, embracing the past and 
the present. 

Thus I passed a year outside of college. 
The throbbing events of the time as well as 
my own development had thrown me upon 
universal history, which was then very inade- 
quately provided for in the Oberlin curricu- 
lum. While I was reading one set of mighty, 
world-historical occurrences, the first in the 
line of continuity, another set, the last in 
time, of far vaster proportions outwardly 
were taking place under my eye, indeed I 
was a participator in them after a small 
way. So I was brought to bridge historic 
time in my soul 's experience. I have set down 



148 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

this bridge also in writing — quite a portion 
of the structure was reared very recently, 
though its materials reach back a lifetime. 
But my intercalary year — so I may call it — 
has come to a close, and the hour has struck 
for me to return to college, and to resume its 
' work, if I intend to complete its course. 

VI. 

Last Yeak of College. 

The turning-point to war is rightly regard- 
ed as the attack upon Fort Sumter. I was 
about ready to start back to Oberlin when 
Lincoln's call for troops gave the stunning 
but necessary pen-stroke for setting the 
bloody machinery in motion — April 15, 1861. 
That halted me in my immediate purpose, as 
it did nearly every young man of the land. 
I deemed it my duty to begin at once a new 
vocation, that of the soldier. A verdant mili- 
tary company paraded the streets of little 
Mount Gilead, where J then was and I entered 
its ranks. But such was the rush in response 
to the President's call that the State could 
not handle even the better drilled companies. 
So our small local squad disbanded for the 
nonce, and I reverted to my previous plans. 

Accordingly about May, 1861, 1 returned to 
Oberlin to take ud the regular studies of the 



LAST YEAR OF COLLEGE. 149 

college course where I had left them a year 
before. As I went into the town from the 
station, I noticed a great crowd of men 
marching toward me, and at the head was an 
old grey-bearded person carrying the Ameri- 
can flag. I knew the man, he was a well-known 
Southerner, who, though white, had come to 
Oberlin. years before with his colored wife or 
mate and their children. It seems that he 
had been too free in expressing his sympathy 
with secession and had roused the townspeo- 
ple, who besieged him, and captured him, and 
compelled him to walk the streets carrying 
the Stars and Stripes. I mingled with the 
crowd, there was a good deal of violent talk, 
but the aifair soon simmered down. Still it 
was a prelude of excited and excitable Ober- 
lin. But when I came to the college grounds, 
I found an incipient military company march- 
ing around on the common. The war spirit 
had seized Oberlin, as it had the whole North, 
and there was only talk of enlisting and of the 
next step of the secessionists. In due time 
the company was provided with a fine grey 
uniform, and was accepted. The whole col- 
lege turned out and went to see it start for 
camp at Cleveland — a part of Lincoln's first 
call for 75,000 men. As the boys marched to 
the railroad station they made a fine appear- 
ance, and there was a good deal of emotion. 



150 A WRITER OF BOOKS.' 

It seemed to be taken for granted that the 
poor dear fellows were going straight into 
the jaws of death. The girls worked hard to 
make the uniforms, then cried to see the war- 
riors, all of them lovers now, move off, never 
to be seen again. 

My services were in demand as a musician, 
for I played the cornet and the town band 
headed the grand procession. Cleveland was 
astir that day, every house on the main 
streets had a display of bunting. Companies 
were arriving with every train; a thousand 
men and more, an entire regiment, headed by 
Colonel, afterward General, Steedman, came 
from Lucas County alone. The common im- 
pression was that the war would soon end; or 
as somebody shouted : ^ ^ Jeff Davis has caught 
a Tartar." That was my opinion, too; and 
so, after escorting the company to camp, and 
adding to the noise and the martial sounds 
there for one day, I went back to Oberlin to 
my studies, but with my nerves tingling in 
response to the exciting events of every suc- 
ceeding day. Of course, each side at the start 
undervalued the other. The South thought 
the North would not fight, or if it did, one 
Southern man would whip two or three 
Northerners. The North believed the negro 
would rise and fight — that turned out a delu- 
sion. 



LAST YEAR OF COLLEGE. 151 

I was in a new class and in new associa- 
tions when I went back after a year's ab- 
sence. I sought to study with zeal the pre- 
scribed course in logic, mathematics and lan- 
guages, but nothing specially seemed to take 
hold of me as in former years. The over- 
whelming national question threw a dark 
shadow over everything. The battle of Bull 
Run (July 19) caused the keenest anguish, 
as well as anxiety for the seat of government. 
A spirit of despair brooded for a time over 
the land. Then came the personal question 
again, Shall I enlist ! I wished to complete my 
course, but I resolved at the same time to 
be getting ready for future service, and so 
I joined a rciilitary company and tried to 
make a little preparation. Also I sought by 
reading to acquire some military knowledge. 

Our family was at this time well repre- 
sented at Oberlin. I had a brother and two 
sisters there. A call again came to me to go 
back to Iberia and teach for the fall term; 
this call I accepted. In that quiet place I 
resolved to try to do some special work, and 
now I have reached the next subject into 
which I threw myself heart and soul, the 
study of philosophy. 

The lectures on metaphysics by Sir Wil- 
liam Hamilton had spoken the latest word on 
this subject. I bought a copy and began a 



152 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

very attentive reading with notes and care- 
ful review. I was much interested by it and 
grasped its leading thoughts. More enticing 
than anything else in it was the vast display 
of erudition. I had not a little of the instinct 
of the bookworm in me, so I was amazed at 
Hamilton's oceanic reading, and wished to be 
able to do something of the kind myself. 
There was, too, a self-assertion in the man- 
ner of the man, which led me to accept quite 
all that he said as sterling gold. The book 
did not enter deeply into the questions of 
pure philosophy, it was rather a psychology 
of the old sort, but with many fresh sugges- 
tions and much combativeness. Still I owe 
to that book my first induction into philoso- 
phy, and thus begins with me a new discipline 
which has lasted all my life, and which has 
called forth a number of books in the Writer 
of Books. It took hold of me on the side of 
learning and became a very attractive work 
at that stage of my culture. Its speculations 
and distinctions I now think were somewhat 
external to me, rather a matter of intellectual 
gymnastics, which is Hamilton's own view of 
the purpose of philosophy. Still, the work 
as a whole, took strong hold; I continued 
to believe in it as the final word on its themes, 
till I came to St. Louis and heard Brockmeyer 
criticize it, and really annihilate it as philoso- 



LAST YEAR OF COLLEGE. 153 

phy not without a warm defense of it at first 
on my part. The confusion between Imagi- 
nation and Reason (the two Infinites) is fun- 
damental, and vitiates his whole discussion. 
After all his reading Hamilton had not mas- 
tered one of the most important distinctions 
in philosophy, specially enforced by Spinoza, 
and fully developed by Hegel, but also, bril- 
liantly poetized in the flights of Brockmeyer, 
who, to my praise of Hamilton's erudition, 
scornfully replied: '^Pooh, you can get a 
gin, jenny or engine to do that." 

I recollect also of trying to do something 
with Livy, the Roman Historian, this same 
fall. I obtained an enormous edition of his 
works for a small price, with Latin notes of 
all the Commentators, and I waded through 
the first decade, reading Arnold and Nie- 
buhr in connection. But I got little or noth- 
ing out of it, the Latin Historian gave me no 
spiritual hold of Rome, or of anything; he 
had a certain rhetorical glow and finish to 
his style, but the whole had something false 
in it. I had hoped to find the same fruit in 
the study of Roman History that I had in 
Greek History, but there was no comparison. 

It was the same experience I had had be- 
fore and have had since. The Roman literary 
expression is not congenial to me. Latin cul- 
ture seems largely on the outside, an imita- 



154 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

tion, lacks originality and often sincerity. It 
borrowed literature and art from the Greeks, 
yet as playthings, not sprung of any deep or 
deepest need of the soul. The Roman was 
first a soldier, then a political man, then a 
legal mind, never a genuine artist. So I re- 
acted from Livy, dropped him, and Latin 
literature has had pretty nearly the same bad 
treatment from me. That will-people has 
strangely clung to an artificial expression in 
Letters; not till Dante does the Latin mind 
find a great original utterance, in spite of 
Virgil and Cicero. 

In the spring of 1862 I returned to Oberlin 
to wind up my college course, of which two 
terms were still due. I was not in a good 
condition for study. The ups and downs of 
the war dragged me along, to which was now 
added the excitable temper of Oberlin itself. 
I do not think that any new matter in the line 
of my work took strong hold of me. I heard 
the course in Moral Philosophy by Professor 
Fair child (afterwards President) with some 
interest; I worked a little into Political 
Economy, and became for a time a follower 
of Carey, whom later study caused me to 
abandon. Plato's Gorgias was in the course, 
but though I translated the Greek, I did not 
then reach at all to the soul of the great 
Attic philosopher. 



LA8T YEAR OF COLLEGE. 155 

There was recruiting in the town, a second 
demand for troops had been published, the 
stress was upon the war. Washington was 
in danger through the advance of Lee and 
Jackson, a temporary call was issued to go 
and defend the Capital. 1 made ready to 
start ; but as the immediate danger passed off 
and as I was within a few weeks of gradua- 
tion, a great object of my ambition for years, 
I withdrew my consent, not without some 
strong pricks of conscience, and good resolu- 
tions to do my duty when my hands were free. 

At last the week of graduation came. The 
church was thronged as usual; the young 
ladies first read their essays; their white 
dresses made a fine display and filled the 
choir seats with a huge snowbank which over- 
flowed into the rest of the church. The next 
day we, the young men, made our speeches. 
These had much to do with the present order 
of things — the war, the abolition of slavery, 
the preservation of the Union. There was 
great condemnation of the President. Ober- 
lin reflected mainly the strong Abolition sen- 
timent and supported Fremont's proclama- 
tion. I leaned to Lincoln's side, though shaky 
at times. Our graduation took place in the 
latter part of August. At the close we were 
all drawn up and received a short exhorta- 
tion with a diploma, and then dismissed. A 



156 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

few days longer I stayed in Oberlin bidding 
good-by to classmates, soldiers and friends, 
not leaving out the yonng ladies. I quit the 
town somewhere about the first of Septem- 
ber, 1862, within a week or so of the date of 
my first arrival in 1857. 

For five years my thoughts, my ambitions, 
my affections had clustered around Oberlin. 
It had an extraordinary influence over me, 
greater than any place has ever had before or 
since. There was a spirit in it which ruled 
and took hold of every person within its 
reach, sometimes repelling but mostly grap- 
pling with hooks of steel. And yet I never 
was distinctively an Oberlinite. On their 
main test, the religious one, I did not come 
up to the mark; I tried to believe as it did, 
but in reality I doubted, and on some matters 
I revolted secretly. Politically I was nearer, 
and educationally I stood quite with them, 
and have on the whole remained so; their 
basic principle, the joint education of hu- 
manity, both as to sex and race, has shown 
itself prophetic, and is becoming national 
with a world-historical outlook. The admin- 
istration of the college was certainly of a 
high order; its discipline and control of 
a thousand students — adolescents of both 
sexes — I believe to be unequaled in success. 
Indeed the chief merit of the Oberlin com- 



LAST YEAR OF COLLEGE. 157 

munity to my mind is to have evolved such 
an educational institution, in whose spirit the 
pupiPs participation was itself an education 
apart from its curriculum of studies. 

On the other hand there was weakness in 
instruction ; I found it insufficient and had to 
supplement it by myself, though it certainly 
was equal to the average of Western colleges 
of that time. Along with my course I pur- 
sue4 a system of self-education. I wrote 
Greek and Latin prose, studied Greek parti- 
cles and accents and sought to acquire a 
number of things which ought to belong to 
a thorough collegiate training. Yet after 
all is said, the student must at last be left to 
himself, when he has the implements, and 
Oberlin gave largely the implements of all 
culture into my hands. The body of teachers 
did good and faithful work, but I do not think 
that there was any man of very unusual tal- 
ent or power in the institution, no original 
man except President Finney. But there 
was a spirit, a common atmosphere, product 
of many good people working together that 
made the institution unique in its influence. 
The same fact I have often noticed. The uni- 
versal spirit is one thing; many individuals 
quite another. 

The central fact of my college experience 
I may again emphasize : it called up in me the 



158 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

grand conflict between the two laws, divine 
and human, or otherwise expressed, between 
the inner behest of conscience and the outer 
command of the State, or still again formu- 
lated, between the moral and institutional 
elements of man. This dualism awoke in 
me with no little trituration of the spirit at 
Oberlin, which was deeply writhing in the 
same contradiction, as I diagnose her case. I 
leaned to the side of conscience, yet with a 
strong inner protest from the other side. I 
carried this dualism with me into and 
through the war; I brought it to St. Louis 
where I happened to meet a man who threw 
the illuminating searchlight of his genius into 
the dark abyss of my own history as well as 
into that of my time and my country. Such 
was for me the true University, dealing su- 
premely with what is universal — whereof 
later. 

The theocratic solution after all did not 
solve, especially as it was coupled with the 
Protestant right of private judgment, be- 
tween which decided antitheses there was 
often friction enough in the minds of the best 
Oberlinites. In this case, too, there were felt 
to be an inner law and an outer, which could 
and did- fall into collision. But such a minor, 
quite local collision lapsed into the back- 
ground before that far mightier conflict be- 



LAST YEAR OF COLLEGE. 159 

tween the two laws, that of Conscience and 
that of the State, which had become national, 
and was just then being fought out at the 
point of the bayonet. The inner conviction 
of the North, which we saw concentrated to 
a white hot point at Oberlin, was in the pro- 
cess of. making itself outer Law in the Consti- 
tution through the might of arms. It could 
not stop with being merely a subjective be- 
lief, but must realize itself, or better, must 
universalize itself in an institutional order 
binding on all who live under it. Such was 
the essential act of our Civil War, in which 
every individual had in some way to partici- 
pate. 

Accordingly I was now to pass from theory 
to practice, from the thought to the deed. 
Could I make the transition with a fair de- 
gree of success! After a quinquennial exer- 
cise of my brain, had my right hand for- 
gotten its cunning? My view was that I 
must start again at the bottom in this sphere 
of the Will, as I had done in the sphere of the 
Intellect, and work upwards, if it be in my 
power. My nature I felt to be dominantly 
brooding, bookish, speculative; but now I 
must make a spring headforemost (as it 
were) into the roaring stream of action at its 
most furious intensity, into the midst of the 
whirlpool of war. 



CHAPTER THIRD. 

IN WAR TIME. 

The graduation exercises of Oberlin, at the 
end of August, 1862, took place under the 
blackest cloud that ever hung over this coun- 
try. The Nation was passing through a verit- 
able infernal journey whose darkness was so 
dense and murky that many of its warmest 
friends began to despair of a successful out- 
come. The General upon whom the fondest 
hopes had been lavished, M'Clellan, had 
failed in the East, which was then supposed 
to be the pivot of the whole war. The Army of 
Potomac, after an unstinted outlay of treas- 
ure and blood had been practically thrown 
back to the place from which it had started 
a year before ; all had to be done over again 
under new and greater disadvantages. In- 
adequate military leadership was felt to be 
the chief cause of these disasters; a success- 
(160) 



IN WAR TIME. IQl 

fill General of the West, Pope, was sum- 
moned bnt soon found himself unequal to the 
task and threw it up. While we young gen- 
tlemen in black frock coats and white vests 
were making our graduating speeches on that 
hot August day, word was brought that Lee 
and Jackson at the head of their victorious* 
legions superbly officered were surging north- 
ward with only a dispirited mass of troops 
between them and Washington, which was 
of course in a great flutter and sent its pulsa- 
tions of terror to every part of the land. 
These throbs were distinctly echoed in the 
words of the speakers and found a strong- 
response in the large audience. A crushing 
anxiety over a Nation going to pieces weighed 
upon each soul present ; but some fervid reli- 
gious natures, who were never lacking in 
Oberlin, seemed ready to believe that the 
world itself was in the throes of dissolution, 
that the Last Judgment was at hand with the 
new coming of the Lord. At any rate I think 
I may say that Oberlin was in Hell that week, 
I know I was; and I have to believe that 
President Finney himself must have gotten 
some taste of that infernal damnation which 
he portrayed so luridly to us students. 

Now, I maintain that this terrible anxiety 
was largely based upon a delusioh. This was 
that the fate of the nation hung upon the 



162 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Army of the Potomac, that the war for the 
Union was to be settled in the East between 
the old Northern and old Southern States. 
The history of the conflict shows the opposite. 
The only place where the vehement resurg- 
ence of the Confederate armies in 1862 did 
not break through the Federal lines was 
Grant's department in the extreme South- 
west. There the star of hope still shone 
above the horizon during the darkest hours, 
but nobody seemed to notice it specially, still 
less to forecast the import of the wondrous 
sign which really was raying out again from 
Heaven, '^Hoc vinces.'^ The reason of this 
neglect lay mainly in the fact that the great 
newspapers of the country were in the East 
and concerned themselves chiefly, though not 
wholly with the military occurences of their 
own section ; the best-known writers, preach- 
ers, lecturers belonged to the Atlantic States 
and had their minds and their hearts upon 
their friends, relatives and acquaintances in 
the Army of the Potomac, around which, 
accordingly circled nearly the whole litera- 
ture of the war, especially that of the better 
sort. Oberlin was of New England origin 
and echoed New England feelings, particu- 
larly in political matters. Undoubtedly all 
the North was anxious for the safety of the 
Capital, and the Eastern army performed the 



IN WAR TIME. 3^03 

service of saving it; but the protection of 
Washington was not the defeat of the enemy 
or the preservation of the Union, wliich could 
be rent in twain with the Capital still secure. 
In 1862 the Western troops and their battles 
were regarded as a kind of fringe around the 
main center which lay between the Potomac 
and the James — a fringe important indeed, 
but not the essential matter. Still the men, 
generals and soldiers, who were to perform 
the great positive national task were just in 
that fringe and under training. But the 
voice was in the East, though the act was in 
the West, and so it remained through the war, 
and thus it is to-day. One result of this 
divorce we may note: there is no adequate 
national literature; the American Deed is 
not recorded by the American Word, since 
they lie quite apart both in space and spirit. 
At that time President Lincoln seemed to see 
the situation clearly and tried to mend it; 
but one trial showed him how perilous it was 
to fly in the face of the prejudices of the East 
and its army. He had to bide his time till 
the wheel turned slowly around from the 
West to the East, not through the North but 
through the South itself. 

I left for home about September 1st, 
intending to enter the army. At Oberlin I 
heard the opinion frequently expressed that 



164 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

tlie history of Company C (7tli Eegiment) 
showed that the enlistment of students in 
companies by themselves was not the best 
way of utilizing their services to the country. 
I may have been influenced by this view, but 
cannot now recollect; at any rate I resolved 
to go back to my little town of Mount Gilead, 
where my people still lived, and to start 
thence on the new career, which at that time 
had a very dark prospect. Lee was crossing 
the Potomac, Bragg was threatening Louis- 
ville and Cincinnati, a universal panic ran 
through the whole State of Ohio. It seemed 
as if the prophecy, which I once heard a Col- 
lege Professor make, of a victorious rebel 
army surging northward till it reached Ober- 
lin, of which it would not leave one weather- 
board unburnt or one brick of Tappan Hall 
on top of another. The sensational forecast 
created a smile in the early part of the war, 
but when every boy capable of carrying a 
gun was summoned to find one as soon as he 
could and hasten by rail to the Ohio Eiver, 
the war seemed getting to be a next-door 
neighbor to every farm house. That was the 
situation when I reached home and found the 
so-called squirrel-hunters organizing for a 
quick trip to the front. I started to go along 
but turned back when I found the whole thing 
to be a panic gradually changing into a frolic. 



IN WAR TIME. 155 

Moreover the resurgent wave of the Confed- 
erates slowly receded after the battles of 
Antietam in the East and Perryville in the 
West ; the two hostile armies settled back into 
their positions essentially as before; at the 
end of 1862 it seemed as if a permanent line 
had been drawn between the North and the 
Sontli, over which neither side could pass 
without defeat; that line appeared to mark 
the fixed division of the Union; in such case 
the South had won, as it simply asked for 
separation. 

The first great effort had gone to restore 
the Union simply as it was; but a second 
greater one must now be made to restore it 
as it ought to be. So into this second rise of 
the loyal States was woven a new purpose: 
emancipation. From the head of the Govern- 
ment down, it had begun to be felt that the 
Union must not only be preserved but eman- 
cipated. Lincoln issued his monitory procla- 
mation September 22d, immediately after the 
battle of Antietam; it heralded the second 
great stage of the war, which attacked slav- 
ery as the main prop and motive of the rebel- 
lion. After a hundred days (Jan. 1st, 1863) 
the slaves of the revolted States were pro- 
claimed free. In that manifesto lurked an- 
other and possibly deeper principle which 
was not fully recognized at the time : the new 



166 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Union is henceforth to be productive of free 
States only, being able even to make a free 
State out of a slave State. Of course, such a 
supreme act of enfranchisement was asserted 
as a war measure, as a means ; in the deepest 
sense, however, it was the end. 

I had now separated from Oberlin, as it 
turned out, forever, having been connected 
with it during a very receptive and formative 
period of life, that between 16 and 21 years 
of age. I was attached both to the college 
and the community, in spite of certain inner 
protests, which prevented me from becoming 
a full-fledged Oberlinite. It gave me much, 
still I needed something which it had not, and 
which I then vaguely felt. Later years will 
bring me experience of what I was groping 
for. 

As a vocation I leaned to the law with its 
natural opening into public life. But the pur- 
suit or even the preparation for a civil calling 
was not to be thought of in the existing con- 
dition of the country. Every young man 
ought to be in the war. When I reached my 
father's house after due greetings I went up 
stairs to my room and looked wistfully at my 
books, of which I had quite a collection. I sat 
down and tried to relieve myself of the feel- 
ing of the oppressive present by reading of a 
distant time — the work I recollect was one of 



IN WAR TIME. IQrj 

Maccliiavelli's. But the Now came down upon 
the page with its dead-weight of anxiety, 
and as it were pushed the volume out of my 
hand. I rose and went down town, where I 
found great excitement over the draft, which 
was progressing in the county. I rather 
hoped it would strike me and settle my un- 
certainty ''by the act of God,'' as it was 
called. But I escaped and was again thrown 
back upon my own free-will for a decision as 
to the manner of tackling the supreme busi- 
ness at hand. I mingled among the drafted 
men and talked with them ; they were an un- 
happy set and colored me somewhat with 
their mood. Even good Eepublicans I noticed 
turned sour at a dose of conscription. With 
such people I did not care to enter the serv- 
ice which at best required all the hope and 
upspring of spirits which I could muster. 
Still I resolved to accompany them to their 
general camp at which the drafted men of 
about a dozen counties were to assemble. This 
camp was located near the thriving town of 
Mansfield, in the adjoining county of Eich- 
land, and would certainly furnish some new 
experiences. Moreover, several regiments 
were recruiting at that place volunteers for 
the three years ' service, which I was inclined 
to prefer as containing a mor^ patriotic class 
of men. 



168 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

So, on a beautiful day of autumn, when the 
leaves of the woods were changing to every 
variety of hue and had begun to fall in pro- 
fusion, I boarded the train at Gilead Station 
with nearly two hundred conscripts and their 
friends, who also showed a great diversity of 
tints in character and feeling. But the domi- 
nating tone was very sombre, it was indeed a 
melancholy crowd, to some of whom even 
tears were not wanting at times, while curses 
of the war never failed. Then the country's 
peril still weighed down the best-disposed 
minds ; just after the battle of Antietam peo- 
ple were gratified to hear of Lee's hasty 
retreat across the Poto^iac, but when they 
learned, as they soon did, that M 'Clellan had 
never brought into the action nearly a third 
of his army, and had then quietly let Lee and 
his forces escape, a dark suspicion of his 
fidelity began to cloud the loyal souls of the 
land; this gloom was not dispersed by the 
fact that Buell had permitted Bragg to walk 
off with all his plunder. There was something 
infernal in that railroad ride with spirits 
damning if not damned; we had to change 
cars at Crestline where we fell in with an- 
other lot of drafted men, even more discon- 
tented and treasonable in talk, from the rock- 
ribbed democratic County of Crawford. But 
in an hour or two we reached Mansfield Sta- 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 169 

tion; thence we passed to the camp through 
a stretch of the seared fields and faded woods 
of fall, in which Nature uttered the mood of 
the soul as well as the state of the nation : 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year. 

I. 

.At Camp Mansfield. 

We were welcomed in a pleasant little 
speech by Colonel Sherman, commander of 
the camp, who evidently knew the morose 
feeling of the people he was addressing, and 
tried to put them into a good humor with 
their lot and their surroundings. He was a 
civilian, a lawyer of Mansfield, who had two 
famous brothers. One of these was Senator 
John Sherman, also of Mansfield, who had 
distinguished himself in Congress and was 
to have a great political career, though he 
never reached his much-desired goal, the 
Presidency. I had often heard him speak in 
Mount Gilead, where his tall spare form was 
a familiar figure. My father was a delegate 
to the Convention which nominated him for 
the first time as Eepresentative, and gave 
him his start in public life. Hence the old 
gentleman used to take pride during his later 
years in saying: "I helped make John Sher- 
man." I once replied in sport: ''But you 



170 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

have not completed your work ; you still have 
a chance to make him President. ' ' The other 
even more famous brother was General Wil- 
liam Tecumseh Sherman, after the war a 
well-known resident of St. Louis; beside his 
conflict of arms with the Southerners he was 
already engaged in his conflict of words with 
those Northerners who held that the Federals 
were surprised at Shiloh, where he com- 
manded a division. Very brilliant was his 
success in that first sort of controversy; but 
the second conflict has remained undecided to 
this day. 

I went with the crowd to the barracks 
which were still in the process of erection, 
though a few were finished. They were one- 
storied, weather-boarded shanties with bunks 
above one another at the sides ; upon the joist 
under the roof were laid some loose planks, 
on which in case of necessity the human 
body might stretch out for sleep. This we 
called the cock-loft, and it became during my 
camp-days my favorite place of repose. As 
I was neither a drafted man nor an enlisted 
soldier as jet, I properly had no right to 
Uncle Sam's rude shelter; indeed I felt my- 
self an intruder and intended when evening 
came to slip off to a hotel in town. An 
acquaintance urged me to stay; I told him I 
would if he felt like sleeping with me in the 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. yjl 

cock-loft, which was unoccupied, the bunks 
being pretty well filled by those who had the 
best right to them, namely the growlers. Not 
long after dark we crawled up the nailed slats 
on a post and lay down across the planks with 
feet hanging over the sides; stretched along 
the planks we dare not go to sleep, for if we 
should happen to turn over once too often, we 
would be precipitated below. I succeeded in 
getting a block of wood for a pillow, but it 
went overboard during the night. The guard 
yelled: ^'What's thatT' ^' First shot," was 
the answer. In the morning I rose somewhat 
sore from the hard bed. Often in the South 
afterwards when sleeping in a puddle on a 
rail with the rain beating in my face, I would 
1 ave been glad of such comfortable quarters. 
Such, however, was the first night of the new 
career. 

So I had passed from town-life and college 
life to camp-life, which was to last many 
months. Moreover I had made the step from 
peace to war, at least to the first as yet harm- 
less stage of the same ; the previous forms of 
human association were to be broken from, 
and a new form built up and lived in — that of 
the soldier. Such was the process now begun,, 
not very concordant with my temperament, 
but an absolute necessity of the time. 

In the barracks during my half- sleep I had 



172 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

heard growls and oaths all night from the 
bunks. In the morning I ran off as soon as I 
conld from that seething vat of discontent, 
making first for the camp sutler, from whom 
I bought a fair lunch. As I sat on a log under 
a sapling, eating a good apple and sunning 
myself for a happy mood, Commissioner 
Dunn, who had charge of the Morrow County 
draft, came up to me and began talking with 
a look of anxiety. I knew him well as a lead- 
ing citizen and lawyer of Mount Gilead; 
moreover he had given me when a boy some 
instruction in Latin, which I gratefully re- 
membered. After some questions I told him 
of my intention to enlist when I had looked 
around a little. ^ ' Good, you are just the man 
I want to find; we must at once have some 
organization of these drafted men, and I ap- 
point you captain." I replied that I was nei- 
ther a drafted man nor an enlisted man ; that 
those discontented fellows would resent any 
outsider placed over them ; that I declined the 
task also as inconsistent with my purpose. 
He seemed puzzled, yet persisted. We both 
lapsed into reflection. Finally I spoke up 
and said to him about as follows: ^'The best 
way of meeting the emergency is to appoint 
temporarily officers from their midst, select- 
ing the most influential men among them and 
clothing these men with responsibility. At 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. I73 

the same time let it be understood that later 
the company can elect its own officers, and 
the present ones can be changed if not satis- 
factory. In fact I would make two companies 
and appoint over them two sets of Captains 
and Lieutenants, who will have an interest in 
keeping order and in allaying discontent, and 
naturally will feel some ambition to retain 
their position when the election of officers 
comes off." The Commissioner replied that 
he had thought of a similar plan and that he 
would at once carry it into execution. We 
sat down and talked over those who were 
fitted by character and station for such a 
duty, as nearly the whole set were known to 
us personally. The Commissioner then has- 
tened to the barracks (of course I went 
along) and called out the appointees, getting 
their consent and giving them a few simple 
instructions. Next he summoned all the con- 
scripts and made a proper little speech, 
soothing them and announcing the officers, 
who, he emphasized, were only temporary 
and could be re-elected or changed when the 
company got ready to have a final election. 

The effect of this measure was at once per- 
ceptible. The officers were men of influence,^ 
and they used it to put things in order and to 
encourage the discontented to face with a 
light heart the inevitable. They could do so 



,174 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the more successfully as they were in the 
same boat with the drafted people. One of 
these officers especially showed a real mili- 
tary aptitude, a natural gift for command. I 
knew him quite well, and had talked with him 
on the way to the camp ; the draft had soured 
him, though a Eepublican, as it did the rest. 
He was a farmer of means, with many irons 
in the fire; he intended to hire a man in his 
place as soon as possible, and hurry back 
home where he would finish his sulk over the 
loss of $300, the usual price then of a sub- 
stitute. But the appointment to an office 
changed him at once; it called forth a new 
and unexpected talent in him which was also 
fully recognized. His face changed from 
biting wormwood to chewing candy. He 
would go among the men with happy look 
giving his orders and imparting his contented 
mood as if just that had been his business 
from birth; obedience to him was easy and 
natural. As an extensive and prosperous 
farmer he had a keen eye for dirty fence- 
corners, and he cleaned them up in camp too. 
He had discovered himself or a new gift of 
himself, and of course took delight in the 
discovery. Observing his ability, I compli- 
mented him : ^^Ike, you ought not to go home, 
but to stay in the war and become a General. ' ' 
He replied, "I could do it, but I must go 



AT CAMP MAXSFIELD. I75 

back to the farm now. ' ' He had a good opin- 
ion of himself, and with good reason. Having 
gotten his substitute, he returned home after 
some weeks, as I believe with real regret, 
since his peculiar talent, developed for the 
first time by the new environment, met every- 
where with ample recognition — always a 
sweet morsel to the hungry soul. I have 
heard (though I do not know) that he after- 
wards enlisted a company when the call came 
in the last year of the war, putting into prac- 
tice again that gift which budded out at 
Mansfield. 

I may here state that another unexpected 
turn began to show itself with a good deal of 
energy. One of these appointed officers was 
soon known to have a physical trouble for 
which he could get and did soon get a sur- 
geon's certificate of disability; two if not 
three of them were going to hire substitutes, 
when they would quit the camp. Thus a new 
election of officers was impending quite from 
the start. Then began such a scramble for 
the six commissioned positions as I had never 
seen. A dozen or more of those drafted fel- 
lows started to electioneer with all their 
might, promising, cajoling, even bullying 
where and whom they could. One good effect 
it certainly had : it took the sulky conscripted 
mind off from its incessant lamentation over 



176 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

its ills, and gave it something else to think 
about beside itself. I was solicited a number 
of times for my influence wbich I always dis- 
claimed, and with truth. Still an eager candi- 
date, whom I knew somewhat, climbed up to 
my cockloft at 12 o'clock midnight, waked 
me up, and asked me to help him in some 
scheme of overreaching his competitors at 
the election next day. I was put out enough 
just to tell him the truth. ''Look here, Mik- 
key, ' ' says I, ' ' don 't you know that this whole 
election is a farce and that you are making 
yourself a fool? These drafted men will never 
be permitted to have any permanent organi- 
zation of their own ; by the terms of the Presi- 
dent 's call they are simply to fill up the de- 
pleted ranks of the old regiments in the field 
which are already officered. If you have any 
sense, you will drop the whole matter and go 
to bed ; anyhow, clear out and let me sleep in 
peace. ' ' But so intent upon his delusion was 
the fellow that he did not seemingly under- 
stand my remark; he crept off, however, in 
the dark, and he grabbed a small office, I be- 
lieve, in the rough-and-tumble contest next 
day. 

Meanwhile the other contingents of drafted 
men from the different counties had organ- 
ized, chiefly by means of the old soldiers 
among them who had been discharged from 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. I77 

the, army for one cause or another, but who 
could not stay at home. Some of these vete- 
rans were good drill-masters, and loved to 
show oif their skill by trotting out their com- 
panies to the parade ground and putting the 
greenhorns through the simplest evolutions 
of the manual with the loud, stern voice of 
command. A sort of rivalry in drill arose 
which was witnessed by the entire camp, and 
soon the best man in the business was picked 
out. He had been (it was said) a captain in 
the 64th Ohio, and still wore his regulation 
coat, with big brass buttons and prominent 
shoulder straps ; his blue pantaloons also had 
the officer's stripe in it, and on his head lay 
sidelings his tasseled slouch-hat. He was tall 
of figure, bustling or rather swashing in man- 
ner, which deeply impressed those ruralists. 
Very soon they began to say: "That is the 
man for our Colonel.'' He came with the 
conscripts of Hancock county, as I remember, 
and intended to start upward from the po- 
sition of substitute. I heard him make a little 
speech, innocent of grammar, but full of am- 
bition, which squinted toward getting votes 
for the colonelcy. There was also some log- 
rolling for the places of Lieutenant-Colonel 
and Major, as was rumored, but it never 
crossed my path and I never cared to dig it 

up. 
12 



178 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

The entire camp of drafted men, accord- 
ingly, passed into the fixed belief that it was 
to have its own regimental organization, as 
well as that by companies. This popular de- 
lusion not only persisted, but grew more 
deep-seated, in spite of warnings to the con- 
trary on the part of persons who recollected 
Lincoln's proclamation calling for the draft. 
In fact, there was guard-mounting, an ap- 
pointed officer of the day, and snatches of bat- 
talion drill commanded by ambitious aspir- 
ants for the regimental offices ; really the regi- 
ment had pretty nearly organized itself under 
the direction of the old soldiers — that is, a 
year old or so — in its ranks, and was perform- 
ing a good part of its routine. I certainly 
experienced pleasure in the American gift of 
self-organization here manifested, even if 
founded on the sand in the present case. The 
head officials of the camp took no pains to 
correct this pervading and actually danger- 
ous delusion; perhaps they were uncertain 
about the matter themselves. At any rate 
the disillusion came like a thunder-clap with 
sudden upheaval of human passion — but all 
that culminated later,, whereof we shall take 
note in its place. 

The picture would not be complete without 
noting the streaks of comedy which kept play- 
ing through this raw camp life. Not a half- 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. ;[79 

dozen days had elapsed when a sudden dysen- 
tery, caused doubtless by change of diet and 
habits of life, flashed through the barracks 
like a line of gunpowder, not sparing any- 
body. At eleven o'clock in the night I first 
became aware of it by men tumbling out of 
their bunks and running for the rudely exca- 
vated cesspools. Then the thing hit me in my 
cockloft and I knew what was the matter, 
having to climb down with great celerity and 
to race with a hundred other people. At about 
two o'clock in the faint moonlight the attack 
of this new enemy culminated; I must have 
-seen fully one-half of the camp on the march 
in double-quick time at that early hour, a few 
of them laughing with me, but the most of 
them cursing the war and asking for a dram 
of whiskey or some medicine. The malady 
was not at all serious and passed off as rap- 
idly as it came, treating me in the meanwhile 
to a huge comedy, in which I had to play a 
part without my consent. 

Even greater was the excitement over an- 
other foe who appeared not long afterwards, 
a foe peculiar to war time, as far as my 
knowledge goes. I have no doubt he was 
brought by old discharged soldiers, of whom 
quite a number came with the drafted men 
for the purpose of hiring as substitutes. In 
their long-used blue pantaloons this little en- 



180 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

emy would nestle, and, if neglected, would 
breed with extraordinary fecundity and begin 
his sly mysterious migrations. Many con- 
scripts were observed to be scratching in a 
suspicious way; one of them resolved to in- 
vestigate, when he made a discovery which, 
was soon trumpeted from one end of the 
camp to the other. Every man began to 
throw off his coat for a figlit and to draw his 
shirt in hot pursuit of this new insidious an- 
tagonist who had literally crept upon him un- 
awares and had already made many a sortie 
from a hidden fortress. The execration of 
the war was renewed, Abe Lincoln was 
blamed for this fresh curse, and I heard the 
Lord himself brought to the judgment-seat 
for having created the damnable insect world. 
The old soldiers from their high perch of ex- 
perience laughed and jeered and mocked the 
greenhorns, enjoying the Aristophanic com- 
edy of a whale camp acting in dead earnest a 
serio-comic burlesque before them — they be- 
ing seasoned veterans in this phase of the 
war, as well as in others. One of them re- 
marked: ''That is an enemy whom you will 
never conquer while this war lasts — the big- 
gest general has to keep fighting him as well 
as the lowest private.'' It was strange how 
this pest never failed to appear when men left 
their homes and began herding together. Still 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 



181 



the watchful housewife became well ac- 
quainted with it during the war ; she was al- 
ways suspicious {crede experto) of that blue 
uniform, much as she otherwise loved it and 
its wearer, and, when cast off, she would not 
allow it to lie around in the house until she 
had put it to a thorough boil with lye. 

Alongside of my relation to the conscripts 
here set forth, I had a line of other expe- 
riences even more personal, which I shall re- 
count. Two or three days after my arrival 
I was lounging around, hearing people 
grumble and sticking my nose into every cor- 
ner to smell out something new, when I hap- 
pened to stroll into the office of the commis- 
sary of subsistence. Suddenly I started in 
surprise, for before me » stood my old red- 
bearded professor of Greek and Latin at 
Iberia College in blue blouse and cap, weigh- 
ing out pork and coffee and sugar and bread 
to a group of soldiers. I went up to him and 
spoke : "In the name of Kikero and Kaesar, 
what does this mean, my learned professor — 
translate this passage to me, I give it upT' 
Of course he recognized me, though some five 
years or so had passed since he had seen me. 
He told me to sit down and wait a few mo- 
ments, when the rush would be over. I did so 
and we soon had our chat together. He said 
that he left Iberia not long after my time 



182 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

there and established an academy in an ad- 
joining town. When Lincoln's call for 300,000 
volunteers appeared, a war meeting was held 
in the place, at which he with all his students 
who were old enough, enlisted in a body as 
privates. His regiment was still in the camp, 
but expected orders to leave for the front, as 
it was practically complete. On my part I con- 
tided to him the fact that I was not drafted, 
but had come over to Mansfield to enlist 
after looking about a little. At once he called 
up his chief, the commissary of the camp, who 
was recruiting a company for the 10th Cav- 
alry, and introduced me as a person who 
ought to be talked to a little in the right way. 
The man was pleasing in appearance, very 
smooth and oily in his words, with a tendency 
to lower his tone of voice almost to a whisper 
without imparting any great secret. Evi- 
dently he did not wear his heart upon his 
sleeve. He answered my questions in a rea- 
sonable way, I thought, and then began to set 
forth my' brilliant prospects for promotion in 
his regiment, which was to be organized not 
at Mansfield, but at Cleveland. This last fact 
I liked, but I dashed a cup of cold water in 
his face when I told him I did not wish for 
any office, not even that of a corporal ; still I 
did have an ambition to do my little share 
toward putting down the rebellion, and then 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. Ig3 

if I survived to return home to some civil call- 
ing. The man, whose name was Hickox*, 
actually seemed to color up under the roots 
of his cheek-beard as if I had given him a 
secret dig, which, if I did, was wholly uncon- 
scious on my part. I rose up, telling him that 
I would think the matter over and see him 
again in a day or two. That night I climbed 
up to my cockloft with my brain puzzling over 
the next step, which must be a stepping off 
irrevocably ; I soon went to sleep but woke up 
in the wee hours from dreaming about my 
case. I turned the matter over and over in 
my mind along with many turns of my body 
upon that hard plank covered with a thin 
blanket ; on the whole I concluded that I had 
found probably my best opportunity. Still I 
would inspect the situation a day or two 
longer. 

The camp was full of recruiting officers for 
every arm of the service — infantry, cavalry, 
artillery, sharp-shooters. I talked with a 
number of these men; as a body they were 
addicted to false promises and prodigious 
puffery, that is, to lying. I found out after- 
wards that not a few of them had other accom- 
plishments. Their ostensible object was to 
induce by hook or crook the drafted men 
whose term was nine months, to enlist in the 
three years' service. 



184 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Strangely I ran upon a literary fellow 
among them, nice-worded and rather elegant 
in manner and attire, who was quite as ready 
to talk of the last novel and especially of the 
effect of the war upon American Literature, 
as to enlist recruits. To be sure these fur- 
nished him exceedingly few opportunities for 
high-toned literary conversation, which was 
evidently his passion. But my chief experi- 
ence in regard to this recruiting set of people 
was with a youngster of 19 or 20 years (to be 
sure I was not yet 22 myself), who was strut- 
ting around in new blue uniform with Cap- 
tain's shoulder-straps, the loudest mouth of 
a loud lot. Stray pin-feathers were shooting 
out boldly from his chin, while a moderate 
down on his upper lip and cheeks was percep- 
tibly struggling for existence. I knew that I 
had seen that face somewhere before, but I 
could not quite locate it on the spot. After 
a while he came up to me and said: ''I used 
to pass you on the sidewalk before the Chapel 
at Oberlin when each of us was going to his 
class ; of course, you did not know me, I was 
an undergraduate and you were a senior.'' 
Then he launched forth a torrent of self-glori- 
fication which was as interesting and as im- 
probable as a tale of Munchausen ; telling how 
many men he had recruited, not only compa- 
nies, but a whole regiment, of whose command 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. Ig5 

he had been defrauded by a blasted uncle on 
account of his pretended youth. I shall have 
to confess that I was fascinated by the fel- 
low's yarns. Soon, however, he struck into 
a fresh vein; he began to play before my 
imagination, already somewhat tranced, a' 
gorgeous picture of my rapid advancement 
if I would only join his contingent which was 
camped at Columbus. He claimed to stand on 
intimate terms with the Governor of the 
State, and to be able to get what he wanted. 
Early next morning he was going to leave 
Mansfield; at parting he said with a hearty 
shake of the hand: ''Expect soon a telegram 
announcing your appointment to a captaincy, 
then board the next train for my quarters at 
Columbus." I never received the telegram 
from him, but I did get an altogether different 
piece of news about him some weeks later. 

Now I was the mystery to myself in this 
delusive sport with a God-gifted mountebank 
who hypnotized me into an actual belief in 
his fables. I still think that he was the most 
spontaneous liar I ever met. It took me the 
whole afternoon to get over his weird spell, 
and I sauntered about through the sunshine 
in a kind of phantasmagoric unreality, some- 
what as if I were sleep-walking, and rather 
expected the telegram. At last sobering night 
drew near with, her real shadows, and I 



186 A WRITER OF BOOKS. - 

mounted again to my cockloft for honest 
dreams, when I began to laugh at the comedy 
I had acted. It was clear that I, too, had my 
little nook of gullibility if the right performer 
would touch it up in the right way. 

About the leading matter, however, 1 had 
made up my mind. The next day, perhaps, it 
was when I went to the Commissary Depart- 
ment, found Hickox, and told him that I was 
ready to enlist. I took the oath — my first 
oath to support the Constitution of the 
United States^and became a soldier. My 
old garments were flung off, and in accord 
with my new condition, I put on the new 
habit, namely Uncle Sam's blue uniform with 
yellow border and stripes — which color indi- 
cated the cavalry arm of the service. I 
should also add that I received a handsome 
bounty, enough to clear off the debt which 
I had contracted in finishing my college 
education. A short furlough was granted 
me; Mount Gilead lay only some twenty-five 
or thirty miles distant ; bundling up my civil 
duds, I started for home in my fresh mili^ 
tary outfit, not too hilarious, for the future 
was layered over and over with the denest 
clouds. On my way I saw at the station a 
large group of drafted men brought in from 
Crawford County by a company of soldiers, 
who marched them under guard to the camp. 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. ]^37 

They were not a liappy set nor happy- 
making ; with them tramped through the mud 
Judge Hall, the leading judicial authority of 
the district and once a Congressman. I may 
add that he had evidently succeeded in 
drowning his sadder feelings in a jug of 
liquor, for he certainly felt merrier over him- 
self than I did. 

One of the curious facts of just these 
months was the sudden disappearance of all 
coined money — gold, silver, and even copper. 
There was no small change current in that 
part of the country; purchase and sale were 
carried on with the greatest difficulty. For a 
while postage stamps were the only means 
for buying a dinner. Then the treasurer of- 
Eichland County issued some rude stitf cards 
promising to pay the bearer five, ten and 
twenty-five cents; these cards became the 
circulating medium, the precious metals and 
doubtless good bank-bills being hoarded. This 
was a striking and very troublesome sign of 
the distrust which seized the people in the 
fall of 1862. Toward the close of the year 
Uncle Sam's little oblong pieces of paper for 
sums less than a' dollar began to appear, and 
relieved the situation. But when I went home 
on my furlough, I had no change except the 
foregoing cards, which the conductor of the 
train at first hesitated to take. Yet as every- 



188 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

body else had only that kind of money he had 
to succumb. 

In the men's waiting-room at Mansfield 
Station was a bar at which a drafted growler 
from a back settlement stood taking a drink. 
He seemed to have a special spite against 
Lincoln for having personally drafted just 
him. A slip of postage stamps was in his 
hand, after he had paid for his dram; he ap- 
peared ignorant of their real nature, never 
having had any use for such things before, 
and he did not know that they were gummed 
on one side. He slobbered some of his whis- 
key over them with the result that they all 
stuck together in a mass; he began cursing 
^'Abe Lincoln's stomps" as he tried to pull 
them apart, but soon in a fit of wrath he 
threw them all on the floor, crying out : ''I'll 
stomp to h — 1 Abe Lincoln's stomps. ' ' A blue- 
coat jeered at him : ' ' You fool, you have just 
given Abe Lincoln fifty cents for nothing. ' ' 

I reached home between nine and ten 
o'clock in the evening; the household was 
already in bed with doors unlocked as usual. 
I gently raised the latch and slipped into the 
sitting-room, with which were connected two 
bed-rooms, one occupied by my father, the 
other by my aunt with a sister. I made a 
little stir when a woman's voice shouted: 
''Who's there?" I was again quiet for a 



AT GAMP MAN 8 FIELD. 189 

minute, and then made another audible stir. 
At once my aunt sprang out of bed with a 
cry to my father : ' ' There 's a man in the 
house, John, get up." He replied: ''I hear 
him ; I have a shooting-iron here. ' ' That was 
too much for me, as I knew my father had no 
gun, and would not use it on a human being if 
he had. I broke into one of my peculiar snick- 
ers which they all recognized, Aunt Mary, 
saying, ''Oh, that's Dent, it's just one of his 
tricks." They all hastily dressed, the lamp 
was lit, and I stood before them in my mili- 
tary attire, answering their good-natured re- 
proaches for scaring them: "The soldier 
must be terror-striking, and I thought I would 
first try my hand on you to see if I can scare 
the rebels." Of course I told my story and 
then all of us retired for the night. In the 
morning I went down town, and chatted with 
friends; but soon the awful burden of the 
time began to weigh upon my spirit; I re- 
turned to my room at home, and sought relief 
by glancing over my classics and trying to 
read in one of them, but could not ; a peaceful 
occupation was no longer possible. Still I 
felt the loadstone in those books and hoped to 
return to them. I picked up a small, thin 
copy of Horace with flexible binding and put 
it into the breast pocket of my blouse where 
I carried it till I came back from the war, and 



190 -^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

I have it still. I recollect of peeping into it 
often on the picket line, when time turned 
heavy. So the writer of books in his training 
was not wholly extingnished, even in the 
direct clash of arms. 

In a couple of days I was again at Camp 
Mansfield, and took possession of my bunk in 
the barrack, ready to begin the work of learn- 
ing the drill which had begun in a small way, 
of course without horses. The company was 
chiefly composed of young fellows of Pennsyl- 
vania German origin from the adjoining 
counties (Stark, Holmes, Crawford, etc.). 
They were innocent farmer boys, cheerful, 
obedient, but a little phlegmatic like their 
ancestors. It was indeed my own stock, or 
half-way so, as my father was in descent 
wholly of this blood. Thus I caught in them 
a backward glimpse of my own ancestors, 
since the Pennsylvania German agriculturists 
are known to be just about the most conserva- 
tive people in the whole country, retaining 
the same beliefs, customs, even styles of gar- 
ments for generations. Very striking was 
the fact that nearly all these boys spoke Eng- 
lish with a decided, yea, labored accent, 
though often their grandfathers and great- 
grandfathers, as I found on inquiry, had been 
born in America. The same way of speaking 
had been transmitted from father to son 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 19| 

along the whole line of migration from Berks 
County, Pennsylvania, to Western Ohio; and 
the movement did not stop there, as I often 
had occasion to notice after the war; it 
passed through central Indiana, through cen- 
tral Illinois, crossed the Mississippi — once I 
found marked traces of it in the heart of 
Iowa. A very persistent type of folk, yea, 
crystallized, we might say; it was, perhaps, 
well that the war surged into their self-satis- 
fied isolated existence and broke it up for a 
while, even if it was in its way idyllic and 
beautiful. These people, however, were not 
all alike. I was amused at a youth, who, on 
my talking with him, boasted of his true 
"Lancaster Deutsch," that is the classic 
Pennsylvania Dutch spoken in Lancaster 
County, in contrast with the rude jargon of 
other counties, for which he showed a singu- 
lar contempt. In like manner I have heard 
Germans of the old country hotly dispute 
which province spoke the best German, with 
the correct accent. 

Very soon the remarkable fact came to light 
that a wholly different strain of men, in fact 
just the opposite sort, was getting woven into 
this paradisaical set of rural youths ; a group 
of toughs from the Bowery, reputed to con- 
tain some of the lowest slums of New York 
City. Two of these fellows were already in 



X92 ^ WRITER OF 500/i/S^ 

the barracks when I arrived, a third one came 
not long afterwards. They were very secre- 
tive, but I wormed into the most communica- 
tive one of the three, in my search for mili- 
tary knowledge. I found that he knew well 
both the old system of drill according to Scott 
and the new one according to Casey. I fur- 
ther discovered that they all three had been 
members of a New York Eegiment in the 
Army of the Potomac. I also knew, but not 
from them, that they were substitutes, and 
had been brought from Columbus, for I hap- 
pened to be present when they were enlisted 
by Hickox. The other links of their history 
I could not then make out, but the whole chain 
rose to light afterwards when I was at head- 
quarters, and it gave a good example of the 
corrupt undercurrents which had started to 
flow beneath camp-life everywhere. 

Another group of total depravity, but dif- 
ferent in origin, consisted of two hard cases, 
who claimed indeed to be cousins, which they 
were in deviltry at least. One of them was 
an expert swordsman and took pains to show 
off his skill before our men who had also to 
use the sabre. Of course there were some 
other scoundrels in our batch, but these ^ve 
had the infernal mark so distinctly stamped 
upon their looks, acts and words that they 
won the special title of '^ Hellions.'^ This 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 



193 



name was first applied to them by the reader's 
humble servant, who was clearly learning, 
among other things, the use of the stout ex- 
pletives of the camp. So we began to have 
in our little company a reflection of the total 
universe, or of Dante's conception of it : Para- 
diso with its innocent, more or less angelic, 
youths, religiously trained mostly after the 
evangelical German pattern; Inferno with 
its demonic spirits, the ^ve Hellions still on 
earth, but making it a Hell according to their 
ability, which in that line was not small; 
Purgatorio in whose intermediate region I 
may place myself, with several other rather 
staid fellows, not very good, not very bad, all 
of us deserving some stripes now and then for 
our betterment, and freely saying so. 

It soon turned out that the two infernal 
sets, though they were wholly unknown to 
each other when they entered the camp, rap- 
idly evolved a feud which frequently caused 
an uproar in the whole company. Dante again 
with his demons fighting one another in Male- 
bolge ! The quarrel started, it seems, in .the 
town at a place of ill repute where the two 
protagonists happened to meet in rivalry 
about a woman. 

I was poring over a copy of Tactics in my 
bunk one day not long after my arrival, when 
word was brought to me that I was wanted at 

13 



X94 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

headquarters. "What, I? Some mistake, 
probably; another man of the same name is 
meant/' "Is not your name Denton J. Sni- 
der r ' " So it is. ' ' " Well, Colonel Sherman 
wishes to see you at once.'' I went with the 
messenger, wondering what mischief I had 
done now; I did not know a single official of 
the camp except Hickox, who, it seems, had 
recommended me at headquarters for a posi- 
tion just after I had disclaimed in my inter- 
view witb him any ambition of the sort. The 
Colonel drew me aside and said in a low tone : 
"You have been reported to me as a person 
of education and character; I need you here 
to do the work of chief clerk, which requires 
good writing and good judgment. You will 
have important responsibilities, but no in- 
crease of pay or rank. Still faithful service 
is certain to have promotion. The young man 
now leaving the place earned in it a commis- 
sion." I must have smiled at the Colonel, 
saying: "Never mind the commission, I am 
in no mood to chase after that; but if I can 
be of service to you, Colonel, I am willing to 
help you to the extent of my ability." He 
gave me a rather incredulous look, but the 
result was that I took my place at a desk near 
the railing where people could get at me, and. 
plunged at once into my task ; that evening I 
moved my belongings into the cock-loft once 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. I95 

more, a much better one, however, with addi- 
tional blankets to soften the plank. I was 
required to sleep in the building that I might 
be on hand during the night if anything 
should happen, the Colonel being then absent. 
Very soon I found that the clerical part of my 
duties was the least. The whole line of 
drafted men in one form or other along with 
the substitutes had to pass through my hands, 
by way of record, when furloughed, dis- 
charged, enlisted in the three years' service, 
and especially when the conscript had found 
a substitute and wished to have him enrolled. 
As there was any amount of deception, falsi- 
fication, bribery and desertion going on, I 
had actually to judge of every case brought 
before me. Some of these cases were com- 
plicated and puzzled me ; I would refer them 
to the Colonel with my opinion; the outcome 
was that he left the business pretty much in 
my hands. It was not long before I got on 
track of the entire scoundrelism of the camp ; 
I came to know quite all the sharpers, both 
civilians and recruiting officers, and made in 
my mind a list of the honest and dishonest 
ones, the former largely predominating, but 
the latter well represented. I can truly say 
that the judicial function of my office far out- 
weighed the cheirographic ; I might liken my- 
self to Dante's Minos, judge of the Nether- 



X96 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

world, who sits at tlie infernal entrance and 
inspects the cases of all who have to pass 
through. 

It is my opinion that Camp Mansfield espe- 
cially offered the most inviting field in the 
State for the artful deceiver. A large part 
of the conscripts were Pennsylvania German 
farmers, a very guileless paradisaical class 
of men on the whole, deeply religious in their 
way, most of them unf alien souls, indeed 
many of them had seemingly not yet heard 
of Adam's fall, in spite of Luther's transla- 
tion of the Bible, which they read. They had 
money and plenty of it, being an extremely 
frugal and industrious folk, with hoards saved 
from their own earnings and also transmit- 
ted from their fathers. Of course, this coifer 
had now to be tapped for themselves or their 
sons or perchance relatives, as the kin hung 
together closely. They brought great wads 
of bills often sewed up in various parts of 
their garments. They did not like the war 
and tried to keep out of it, wishing only to 
pursue their idyllic life of innocence by them- 
selves, and on election day to vote the demo- 
cratic ticket — which vote was also a kind of 
inheritance. Now this hidden money the 
sharper soon smelt out and began to fish for 
through the business of substitution, since all 
these people wanted substitutes, but were ig- 



J 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 3^97 

norant of any methods of transacting such 
business. They had been suddenly tumbled 
into a wholly new world and were half dazed 
at the situation. It required no great insight 
to see that they needed a peculiar protection ; 
they had little use for fire-arms, and indeed 
were half afraid of the pistol lest it might 
go off of itself. Two or three times some of 
them ventured outside the lines when they 
were waylaid and robbed by thugs who 
infested specially the road between camp and 
town, skirted as it was by woods for a cover. 
Though I, too, was a greenhorn and had just 
come from the Oberlin Eden, still I knew 
enough of the Devil and Hell, even from 
President Finney's lips, to get on track of 
these sinners who were worrying the innocents 
of Camp Mansfield. I resolved to do my part 
toward protecting them, which in the nature 
of the case could not be much. Still I did a 
little directly, and more perhaps indirectly 
through a kind of terror I inspired in a few 
evil-doers who knew that their work had to 
undergo my inspection. 

Let me give an example. A very simple 
Pennsylvania German farmer came into the 
office with his substitute, accompanied by a 
recruiting Lieutenant, in whom my confidence 
was not great, had his papers made out and 
received his discharge as a drafted man, the 



198 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

substitute enlisting in the infantry. The par- 
ties left and I supposed the transaction ended. 
What was my surprise when after about a 
week's time the same simpleton of a Pennsyl- 
vania Dutchman appeared before me with 
another substitute, accompanied by another 
recruiting officer and asked for another dis- 
charge. I recognized him at once and said, 
calling him by name, which I then recollected 
and still recollect: ''Wliy, Mr. Schafer, you 
have been here already and have received 
your papers.'' This fact the recruiting offi- 
cer stoutly denied; but I turned to the back 
pages of the register and found a record of 
the whole affair. At once the nature of the 
fraud flashed through my mind from the va- 
ried experience I had already enjoyed. Mean- 
while, the recruiting officer began abusing the 
poor fellow, which indignation I felt to be 
only a cover for his own trickery. I interfered 
and addressed the man, who stood pale and 
trembling as if ready to fall into a faint: 
^'You have that former discharge in your 
pocket; show it to me." He produced it 
rather hesitatingly, for I imagine he had been 
told to keep it hid. I seized it and spoke to 
him with emphasis: ''This has already freed 
you of the draft; you need not pay for this 
second substitute." He was the very sim- 
plest of all simple Susans ; he spoke English 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. ^^d 

very imperfectly at best, and now he stared 
at me frightened and speechless as if he had 
committed the unpardonable sin, and was 
present at the Last Judgment. The notion 
struck me that I could help the poor fellow 
with my German, which the recruiting officer 
did not understand; so I flung some "Dutch'' 
at him in this fashion: ^'Mach' dass du fort- 
kommst, nwim ' dein Geld mit, geli ^ gleicli nach 
Hause und hleib' da, NicMs soil dir geschehen 
— Ich sag'es!'' and I brought down my fist 
with such a thump upon the balustrade before 
him that it shook and he ducked. I believe 
this to have been the biggest piece of pre- 
sumption and pure bluff that I ever indulged 
in during my life, for I had no authority. I 
was simply a private in the ranks detailed to 
do some writing. Yet I acted the part of the 
commandant of the camp (the Colonel was 
not present at the time) and succeeded in 
wresting an innocent fool from the clutches 
of a harpy and getting him out of their way. 
I handed him a pass which would let him 
through the guard at the gate, which was only 
a few steps distant, going with him to the 
door and seeing him off and out. That was 
the last I saw or heard of Herr Schafer. The 
recruiting officer pushed off in the opposite 
direction, angered, but foiled, and I doubt not, 
vowing vengeance. 



200 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS, 

The scheme I imagine to have been the 
following, though I have no proof positive. 
Two sharpers (and possibly more) took the 
victim in hand, seeing his verdancy; they 
made him believe that he had to furnish two 
substitutes, one for the infantry and one for 
the cavalry. The first of these sharpers as 
recruiting officer was to take charge of him 
the first time; the other was to manipulate 
him in the second and more difficult operation. 
The man may have had to send home for 
more money ; at any rate the two acts were to 
be kept as far apart in time as possible. The 
scheme depended upon my f orgetfulness ; as I 
had often to look into a hundred faces indi- 
vidually a day, it was likely that I would not 
remember them after the lapse of a week. 
And possibly some I did not remember, as I 
was doing that sort of work during many 
weeks. Anyhow it was none of my business 
to interfere (they may have thought) as I 
was merely a recording clerk. 

Complaints against me came to the Colonel 
and I knew that they would, as once or twice 
I was threatened by outsiders with a chop- 
ping-off of my clerical head for ' ' sticking my 
nose into other people's business.'' I went 
to the Colonel and told him that I wished 
him to investigate thoroughly every definite 
charge and to bring me face to face with the 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 201 

accuser, even if he deemed me innocent. This 
I asked of him for my own sake, for my honor. 
Innuendos of corruption against all the of- 
ficials, highest and lowest, not sparing the 
Colonel himself, were flying about the camp, 
generated by a real cesspool of rottenness 
which in my judgment lay in the system itself. 
I never received a summons from the Colonel 
to answer any specific accusation, but that 
did not stop the disappointed from secret 
flings on the outside, such as tyranny, favor- 
itism, bossism by ''an upstart of a petty clerk 
trying to play the boss of the whole concern.'' 
On the other hand, I may add, for the grati- 
fication of my reader I hope, that I received 
not a few marks of recognition. One I may 
mention. I did not drill with my company, 
nor did I live in its barracks; the fact is I 
had been only a few days with it at the start ; 
still it did not forget me. A furious compe- 
tition broke out between Hickox and another 
recruiting lieutenant of the same regiment in 
regard to precedence in the line of promo- 
tion; each came to me and told his story, 
apparently seeking my influence or sympathy. 
I said little to them; in truth the whole con- 
troversy bored me, yea, disgusted me. But 
I felt in a different mood toward a fine young 
fellow who hoped and deserved to be second 
lieutenant. One day he came to headquarters 



202 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

and called me aside, saying, in evident anx- 
iety: ^'I am in danger of not receiving the 
position I expected. The first sergeant is 
pushing hard for it, both openly and secretly. 
I wonld like for yon to say a good word on 
my behalf." I again disclaimed having any 
influence and certainly I had no authorized 
power; ''you forget," said I, ''that I am but 
a private. " " Not at all, ' ^ he replied, ' ' every- 
body is saying that you are the fittest man to 
command the company; if an election were 
held to-morrow I believe you would be chosen 
captain." This of course was questionable, 
and no doubt the young man wished to com- 
pliment me ; but such a statement by him, who 
was on the whole modest and truthful and 
also well-informed, tickled my vanity not a 
little. Naturally I told him that I did not 
think he was in any danger (which was my 
real opinion), but that I would look into the 
matter. I did talk with various influential 
men of the company, and was able to report 
to him that he was in no peril and that he 
must not let himself be scared in war by a 
little bluster. Of course he easily landed his 
position through his merit, not through me. 
Still he did not fail to show his gratitude 
when we both went to the front ; he took the 
trouble to hunt me up in a wholly different 
division of the army and to ride out to the 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 203 

advanced picket line where I was on duty 
when he thought he had an opportunity of 
doing me a service. 

Thus I was getting a pretty extensive ac- 
quaintance with the night side of the war as 
brought to the surface by the draft ; yea, with 
the night side of human nature itself, into 
whose dark underworld I had never before 
been dipped by personal contact and associa- 
tion. I was myself an inexperienced simple- 
ton, with Hell only in my imagination gotten 
from Scripture and especially from the Ober- 
lin preachers ; but here at Mansfield was a bit 
of the genuine article, of the burning reality 
itself, and I was swashing about in it engaged 
in my little but desperate fight with the de- 
mons. Even good men had lost in that awful 
sludge the great end of the war, which I at 
least tried to keep alive and indeed aflame 
within me; friendly people could not under- 
stand why I did not care for promotion, and 
wondered how I could be interested in doing 
such work without an immediate personal in- 
ducement, namely the much-coveted commis- 
sion, with its rank and pay. I was an ''odd 
genius" in the camp — a character which I 
have kept up pretty well ever since. The liter- 
ary fellow of the group elegantly designated 
me as "an impracticable idealist," in spite of 
my rather practical handling of some of his 



204 ^ WRITER OF BOOK 8. 

fellow-craftsmen, the recruiting officers. But 
the epithet I myself deem a good hit, for it 
has clung to me in one form or other during 
life. 

The negative forces of the time, or per- 
chance the infernal spirits, let loose upon 
that camp and through it upon the country, 
may be summarized as follows: (1) the pro- 
fessional substitute-repeater, who would go 
from camp to camp in the state, and perhaps 
in several states, hiring as a substitute for so 
much cash (usually several hundred dollars, 
paid down), releasing the drafted man and 
then deserting, to try the same game else- 
where. Thus the conscript would lose his 
money and the government its soldier. More- 
over, these professional substitutes, often, 
taken from the slums of cities and often de- 
serters, were organized into gangs by corrupt 
men of some political influence. These last 
were the worst batch of all, distilling the 
subtlest poison and hardest to get at. Such 
we may put into a second class (2), the pro- 
fessional substitute procurer (or possibly, 
procuress), even if there might be and often 
was honest legal talent engaged in getting 
substitutes for clients. The first and worst 
brigand of this class was a shyster from Co- 
lumbus who had organized a regular stream 
of substitutes, composed of paroled prisoners 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 



205 



of Camp Chase at Columbus ; these he would 
bring by rail to Mansfield, to Cleveland and 
doubtless elsewhere, and hire them to drafted 
men, getting the lion's share of the money and 
sometimes the additional bounty. Uusually 
the substitute would desert sooner or later. 
There can be little doubt that this nefarious 
business was carried on by the connivance of 
some officials at each end of the line, who 
would be likely to get their portion of the 
profits. It must be recollected that the whole 
North was flooded with these paroled prison- 
ers, who had been captured by the victorious 
Confederates in the advance of Lee. Stone- 
wall Jackson scooped up some 12,000 Federal 
soldiers in a single batch at Harper's Ferry 
and paroled them (September 15th, 1862). 
Many of these were sent to the camp at Co- 
lumbus, which very soon overflowed, as I 
found in October some who had escaped 
thence as far north as Morrow county, in 
uniform still, but penniless, begging their 
way and trying to get back home in the East. 
Then the drafted men had not yet gone to 
the camp at Mansfield. A third class (3) was 
the bounty jumper, whose field was the boun- 
ties offered for enlistment by town, county, 
city and State. He often united his business 
with that of the substitute-repeater, though 
the two were different departments of the 



206 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

general pandemonium of the time. Both also 
had to be deserters in order to succeed in 
their calling. I may state here, for the 
reader's edification, that the entire lot of five 
Hellions (already mentioned) of our company 
were substitute-repeaters, bounty-jumpers 
and deserters, each member uniting in him- 
self all three diabolical qualifications, with 
others of a similar kind. I may add, too, that 
it was the brigand shyster who engineered, 
certainly the first batch of three, and probably 
the other two, all of them coming from Camp 
Chase at different times. A fourth class of 
the demoniac brood cannot be omitted in jus- 
tice to the subject: (4) the bribers and the 
bribed, necessary counterparts, but embrac- 
ing two different orders of men, since the 
bribed would be naturally those in authority, 
the bribers not. I must confess that I never 
approachingly delved to the bottom of this 
department of the Mansfield Inferno, for it 
was the murkiest, most invisible and inacces- 
sible, seemingly bottomless portion of the pit. 
I have already said that rumor, which is no 
respecter or discriminator of persons when it 
goes on the rampage, besmirched every of- 
ficial in camp. Of course I did not believe in 
any such universal damnation, but I did be- 
lieve decidedly in the depravity of certain in- 
dividuals. Personally, I have the conviction 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 207 

that several times I was carefully felt of in 
regard to my bribability : it would be so easy 
for me to change the record a month back 
without detection. Once only was the offer 
clearly direct. A Frenchman belonging to a 
French farming colony in Ashland county, I 
believe, and unable to speak English, had 
been drafted and came to our office with a 
French neighbor who could talk tolerably our 
idiom. His name was written Genro on our 
list, whereas he was really Jeannerot, a dif- 
ferent person altogether, he claimed. I had 
studied French and could talk it a little, much 
to the surprise of both and, I believe, to their 
chagrin. I said to the drafted man in easy 
French: ''Monsieur, pronounce your name.'' 
He did it, but quite unwillingly, for he was 
well aware of the attempted trick. I then 
spoke to his companion : ' ' Do you not observe 
that both names sound alike in spite of their 
difference in spelling T' ''Ah, non, mon Dieu, 
that was not so, ' ' he replied. I added : ' ' Let 
me tell you how it happened. This man re- 
fused to spell his name to the enrolling officer 
of the township, who, not knowing French, 
wrote it down phonetically, and made a very 
fair job of it, too. " " Parbleu, monsieur, pas 
du tout." Thus the chief clerk found use 
for his French as well as his German 
in that polyglot congregation of sin- 



208 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ners. I declared: ''You cannot -be re- 
leased." Colonel Sherman being present 
and also possessed of a little French, was 
attracted by our bi-lingual argument and 
came up, when I appealed the case to him. 
"Judgment affirmed/' said he, with his usual 
bonhomie, and turned away. The two French- 
men went out, but shortly afterwards the 
English speaking one returned and began his 
attack anew. Says he : ' ' The man has a wife 
and children dependent on him for support. ' ' 
' ' That is sad, ' ' I replied, ' ' one of the saddest 
phases of war ; but half of the drafted men of 
this camp, yea, of the whole United States, 
at the present moment have families. If that 
reason held all of us might as well start for 
home at once,'' How often did I have to 
hear that same pitiful plea with the tears 
rolling down the cheeks of the father and hus- 
band, and once or twice of the wife and 
mother herself, with a group of children 
about her, weeping ! War is Hell, there is no 
doubt of it. The Frenchman then drove at me 
with another argument: ''The man is weak 
physically, has a chronic ailment and cannot 
possibly stand the hardships of a campaign." 
My answer was: "He does not look so, but 
that is not in my province to settle ; go to the 
surgeon and get a certificate of disability and 
it will be honored." As I suspected, the 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 209 

sickling had already passed through the sur- 
geon 's hands and came out sound. Then fol- 
lowed the third and supposedly all-convincing 
argument, he leaning over and whispering in 
my ear : '' Fifty dollars to take off his name ! 
-non, a hundred!" The fellow must have 
felt how foolishly he had exposed himself, for 
he turned and scudded out the door, not even 
waiting for an answer. Possibly my look de- 
moralized him, but of course I did not see it 
—if so, this was a case of immorality de- 
moralized, a kind of negation of the negative. 
My tempter I never saw again, but his 
drafted friend stayed in camp and was as- 
signed in due time to some regiment, as far as 
I now recollect. This instance, however, re- 
mains in memory as the most open and indeed 
crude effort to bribe me while at Mansfield. 

The time approached when the business of 
the camp had to be wound up and the con- 
scripts sent to the front. These had been for 
weeks organized in companies, with their own 
officers, and they had also a kind of regi- 
mental organization which performed certain 
functions, but was waiting for the supreme 
word of authority to complete itself. I have 
already spoken of the prevalent delusion 
among the drafted men that they were to be 
put into companies and regiments under of- 
ficers of their own choosing. Upon us all 



14 



210 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

now fell a thunder clap from tlie clear sky; 
an order from the Adjutant General of the 
State was brought to Colonel Sherman, bear- 
ing this purport : Let each conscript at once 
choose what regiment he will join at the front. 
That meant the breaking up of the whole mili- 
tary organization of the drafted men and the 
resolving of them back into their individual 
discontented units, into a mob out of which 
there was no telling what might come. The 
danger was greater, as they now had a unity 
of their own. Their long-cherished delusion 
was suddenly to be disillusioned out of them, 
just at a stroke. Would they strike back, of 
course, blindly, at anybody, in any direction? 
The Colonel saw the gravity of the situation ; 
he received the telegram in the afternoon aad, 
without letting its contents be known, he 
picked up his hat and went to his private 
room at the house of a nearby farmer, where 
he deliberated and slept over his perilous 
task. In the morning he told us of the order ; 
we all agreed that we had before us an ex- 
ceedingly delicate and dangerous duty. I 
knew the feeling well, better, probably, than 
the other officials, since I had been in it at the 
start and saw and even used its power to 
help drag out of their primal chaos the Mor- 
row county drafted men. I deemed it quite 
possible that headquarters, as the central 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 



211 



point, might be stormed in a general riot. 
There is no doubt that Colonel Sherman and 
Adjutant Cummins acted with great discre- 
tion and tact in this ticklish crisis, and with 
decided success. I was not in the secret of 
their procedure, but I watched its workings 
with unalloyed interest. In fact, during the 
day and night I had thought out my own 
method of dealing with the emergency and I 
applied it in a very small way on my own 
hook, as everybody's help was needed. It 
ran somehow thus : First conciliate the com- 
pany's officers, the most influential men of it, 
and the worst disappointed on account of the 
loss of their positions. Secondly, give them 
all to understand that you (the officials) are 
not to blame for this order, though you have 
to execute it ; indeed, you can say with truth 
that you would have preferred them to have 
retained their own organization. I myself 
believe to this day that the order was unwise 
and disadvantageous to the service; it was 
rather the poorest way of utilizing the draft. 
Thirdly, take the men in groups, not in mass, 
when the order is explained to them ; the news 
will anyhow get to them speedily enough. 
The excitement ran high for a couple of days 
and the demagogue appeared who had to be 
given a sharp warning; but at last quiet was 
restored, as I believe, chiefly through the 



212 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

men's sympathy with the officials of the camp, 
who were felt to be doing a disagreeable but 
necessary duty, and who really sympathized 
in turn with the men. 

The crisis seemed to be fairly tided over 
when trouble broke out anew, with even 
greater vehemence, through the folly of one 
individual. The men had to be sworn in and 
to be paid off; for this purpose a mustering 
and disbursing officer was sent to us from 
Columbus. He walked into the headquarters 
of the camp one morning, a captain of the 
United States army, and was of course re- 
ceived with great deference. His first act, 
however, did not impress me, though only a 
private of the volunteers, very favorably. He 
took from under his coat a large package of 
greenbacks wrapped up simply in a piece of 
paper, and said: ^' First, let me put away 
this money. ' ' He entered the railing and went 
to a small closet, a receptacle for unimportant 
papers ; throwing open there the unlocked or 
rather, lockless, door he flung the package 
carelessly inside and shut the door. Then he 
went out. Two or three persons in the office 
at the time had heard him say, ' ' this money, ' ' 
and had seen the whole proceeding. I be- 
came at once exceedingly nervous about that 
package. Two or three bold highwaymen 
might have rushed in at any moment, dis- 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 213 

posed of me by a blow or a shot and seized 
the money. I changed my seat and desk 
around so as to see everybody entering the 
place or even approaching it, and at the same 
time to keep an eye on the closet. One of my 
thoughts was that it might be a cunning 
scheme laid to entrap me and the office in the 
blame if the money was lost while the wily 
captain, being absent, would escape. This, 
of course, was a pure fancy." It shows, how- 
ever, that my imagination was preternatur- 
ally active through the suspicion of villanies 
which actually did spin the whole camp in 
their network. The captain returned in the 
evening and bunked with us, at headquarters, 
considerably to my relief. Still, I passed an 
uncomfortable night, revolving all sorts of 
contingencies and listening for sly footsteps 
— once or twice I imagined I heard them. 
But in the striking of the wee dark hours I 
came to one conclusion : on the morrow either 
that package or I must leave the building. 
About breakfast time the captain rose, 
dressed and went out ; I had already risen and 
peeped into the closet, where I saw the miser- 
able stuff still secure. The colonel came early 
to the office and was informed of the situa- 
tion. Very soon the package vanished and 
was probably placed in the vault of some 
town bank, from which the money could be 



214 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

drawn as wanted, and in wliicli it ought to 
have been put at first. , 

The incredible heedlessness of the new cap- 
tain was, therefore, stamped very vividly 
on my mind the first day. Still, I thought 
he might know something about military mat- 
ters, into whose literature I was delving dur- 
ing spare moments. He said on inquiry in a 
rather pointless way that he was not a West 
Pointer, but an appointee from civil life. 
I soon found that he knew nothing of drill, 
very little of the army regulations, "only 
what I have picked up myself" (his words), 
and of Jomini's Art of War, with its grand 
strategy, he had never heard. An immmeasur- 
able ignoramus just in his own business — I 
bored him no more. Very soon he began to 
show another strain in his character — his 
unparalleled assumption of authority, a kind 
of megalomania, in fact. He declared that he 
was commandant of the camp, outranking 
Colonel Sherman. It was a speck of fun when 
he summoned before himself the recruiting 
officers, one by one, and hauled them over 
the coals, chiefly for the lack of some formal- 
ity, not for their deeper sins, of which he 
seemed ignorant. I happened to be present — 
for the incident took place at our headquar- 
ters — ^when he applied his thumbscrews to 
the literary man of these recruiters — a well- 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD, 215 

spoken, cultured gentleman. The latter 's 
commission was that of a second lieutenant, 
whereas he hajDpened to wear an old or bor- 
rowed coat with the shoulder-straps of a first 
lieutenant. ''Why do you not appear before 
your superior officer in proper dress?" was 
the haughty reproof. "Take off those shoul- 
der-straps or leave the camp." We were all 
indignant at the uncalled-for insolence toward 
a better man than himself; I may gay in ad- 
vance that it was the captain and not the 
lieutenant who had finally to quit the camp. 
He would compel a muster roll to be written 
over again if he found a correction in it 
through an erasure, thus causing hours of 
unnecessary labor. In a week he was thor- 
oughly disliked by all, excepting, possibly, a 
girl who used to come to camp. 

All this could have been borne by the of- 
ficials ; but when he came to the drafted men,- 
who were still smarting with indignation at 
what they deemed a wrong, trouble at once 
started up afresh. He had not mustered 
more than half a dozen sets of people before 
his tyranny, his arrogance, his insulting 
words and acts were noised through all the 
barracks, and called up threats of vengeance. 
Suddenly the storm came to a head — exactly 
how or where I never could find out, as the 
reports were conflicting. All that I know is 



216 ^ WRITER OF BOOKiS. 

that I was sitting at my desk busy with my 
task when I heard an unusual noise of com- 
mingled shouts ; I sprang to the door and saw 
the captain coming up the camp avenue fol- 
lowed by fully two hundred men, hooting, 
jeering, braying out a pun on his name, ''mule 
in the berg," and mocking him derisively. 
Already several officers, seeing his danger, 
had run to his assistance and were keeping off 
the crowd, which surged up behind him and 
alongside of him, while a few of the most dar- 
ing were getting in front of him with the evi- 
dent purpose of surrounding him. The of- 
ficers succeeded in pushing him through a 
door into a building and holding the crowd 
outside. That was the last I saw of the cap- 
tain; report has it that he was spirited 
through a back window across the camp line 
not far away, and that he skulked through 
the woods to the station, where he boarded the 
first train for Columbus, giving a blood-curd- 
ling report of the desperate conflict at Mans- 
field to the Adjutant General, who at once 
resolved that he must hurry to the seat of 
war in person. It is also highly probable 
that he received from the commandant a tele- 
gram confirmatory of the captain's battle, 
along with the suggestion that the latter had 
lost usefulness at Camp Mansfield and ought 
not to return. I saw Colonel Sherman an 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 217 

hour or so after the crisis had passed ; he was 
still agitated with the excitement of it; he 
said to a little company of friends : ''A very 
narrow escape for that fellow and perhaps 
for ns all." 

The distinctively unique impress which the 
captain has left on my mind is that he was 
the most successful misfit for his place that I 
ever saw in my life. Of course I know noth- 
ing about his appointment, but it was doubt- 
less the result of political influence, and thus 
he may be taken to represent a strand of the 
war time which ran through the government 
from top to bottom. Simon Cameron was in 
large what the captain was in small ; both we 
may contemplate in their field as typical char- 
acters, without which the throes of that period 
cannot be well understood. 

The next stage in the evolution of our camp 
was the appearance of the Adjutant General 
of the State (Hill) with a new mustering 
officer, who was a West Pointer, I think, and 
a much older man than our former specimen. 
He knew his business and did it acceptably, 
but won no such memorable distinction as had 
the captain. The chief thing that I recollect 
about him is the enormous quantities of whis- 
key he would guzzle down in order to get up 
steam for doing a little work. Adjutant Gen- 
eral Hill naturally hovered about headquar- 



218 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ters a good deal, and I saw Mm often ; lie was 
a clean, worthy, well-intentioned man, well 
bred and cultured, but not a genius equal to a 
great emergency. He called the people of 
the camp together and made them an encour- 
aging speech, full of hope— which was, of 
course, the right thing to do. He said that 
the war would close in about six months, that 
the drafted men would not in all probability 
have to serve out their time (nine months) ; 
these words were spoken in December, 1862, 
but they did not miss the mark quite so far 
as Seward's "three months'' at the outbreak 
of the war. Finally he 'told the drafted men 
to go to their barracks and choose the regi- 
ment which each preferred. This statement, 
made unconditionally, showed a want of fore- 
sight and decision, and caused him and the 
rest of us no little trouble afterwards. Sev- 
eral Ohio regiments were under taboo for 
their bad conduct and utter worthlessness, 
chiefly caused by the inefficiency of their com- 
manding officers. Drafted men were not al- 
lowed to select these poorest regiments, and 
justly so; but the Adjutant General said 
never a word about any such exception. Now 
it so happened that several groups of drafted 
men came from counties where two of these 
tabooed regiments had been originally en- 
listed 5 naturally they chose one of those in 



AT CAMP MANSFIELD. 219 

which they had friends, and reported the fact 
to General Hill. But the latter said in reply : 
"I cannot let you go to that demoralized regi- 
ment, whose colonel has been recently cash- 
iered. Go back to your quarters and make an- 
other choice. '^ Again he made no exception. 
The next day it was, I think, the men re- 
turned, and their spokesman said that they 
had made their new selection. Behold, it was 
just the second tabooed regiment, in which 
also they had acquaintances. Again the Gen- 
eral was compelled to declare : ' ' Impossible ! 
that is a worse regiment still, with its chief 
officers under court-martial. You will have 
to try again.'' The men were sullen and si- 
lent, when their spokesman stepped out of 
their ranks and faced the General squarely. 
I recollect his long brawny arms, which he 
thrashed up and down in gesture as if he were 
flailing, and his big bony farmer hands, with 
fingers extended, as he spoke in loud, decided 
tones: ''Gineral, you told us to choose our 
regiment and we did so in good faith; you 
then refused our choice and told us to choose 
agin ; we have honestly done so and agin you 
reject our choice and tell us to try it over. 
We shan't do it; we shan't play this cock-a- 
doodle game with you any longer; take us 
and send us where you d — n please." This 
could not properly be called insubordination, 



220 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

as the men did not propose to resist and were, 
in fact, not yet mustered in. Quite a crowd of 
interested onlookers had gathered about the 
group, composed of drafted men, of enlisted 
men and of some camp officials. There was 
no direct applause at the spokesman's words, 
but a very perceptible whisper of approval 
and sympathy ran through the multitude. 
What! are we going to have another riot? 
Is the Adjutant General of the State to be the 
hero of a new war at Mansfield, and to re- 
enact the captain's escapade! I was present 
through the whole scene, as it took place just 
in front of headquarters, and I must say that 
I thought the rustic orator had the best of the 
argument. And now comes the turning point, 
which, I believe, was this : General Hill saw 
his mistake and started to correct it on the 
spot. He did not resent the vigorous lan- 
guage of the spokesman, but began to smooth 
the matter over ; he was so successful in iron- 
ing out the ruffled feelings of that group that 
I never heard of any further trouble. A 
credit mark for the General, I say; still, he 
ought not to have made such a mistake in the 
first place. 

Hard problems kept coming to me, in re- 
gard to which I had to be judicious and also 
judicial. Here is an arrested Irishman, who, 
having been drafted, claims to be a British 



AT GAMP MANSFIELD. 221 

subject, though without papers. I believe his 
claim to be fraudulent, still I keep him out of 
the guardhouse, where his status properly 
puts him, but have to watch him nevertheless 
till he can be turned over to the higher au- 
thorities. Through maltreatment of him, we 
do not wish to stir up a war with England. 
Even harder to crack is the nut which the 
good Quaker brings us ; he has been drafted, 
but refuses to figlit or to hire anybody to 
fight in his place; his conscience is in the 
most open manner defiant of the State and 
its Law. In low-crowned hat and in the cos- 
tume of his sect, he sits there before me, 
meekly ready for martyrdom, yet with a soul 
of iron. What shall I do with him? Shall I 
send conscience to prison! That hurts me. 
I had sympathized with the Oberlin martyrs 
— for such they were called — when they were 
sent to jail at Cleveland by authority, also 
for conscience sake. But now I felt strongly 
the other side. I was in authority myself; 
after a small fashion, I represented the Law 
which was denied and defied. Before me sat 
a profoundly conscientious man, who de- 
clared (as they did at Oberlin) that he was 
going to obey God's Law and not man's. Yet 
I had my duty also; I had to execute the 
human enactment. The truth is, I dodged 
the issue. I could not put this man into the 



222 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

guardhouse where he legally belonged, among 
deserters, drunkards and bounty jumpers in 
all their filth, moral and physical ; I told him 
to stay at headquarters till the Colonel came 
and decided his case. I even thought that I 
might have to take him up to my cock loft 
during the night and let him sleep with me 
on my blanket ; so far I would bend the Law 
for the man of conscience. Indeed, the Gov- 
ernment at Washington was troubled a good 
deal by this same difficulty, and really com- 
promised with the Quaker and his inner light. 
The State had strongly invoked conscience 
against slavery; but what if this same con- 
science turns against the State? Thus the 
grand collision of the time between the two 
Laws, or between the moral and the institu- 
tional elements, which I had felt so intensely 
on one side at Oberlin, I now experienced on 
the other side at Camp Mansfield in a prac- 
tical way. The dualism was deepened in 
strength, for the dilemma now had its two 
horns uncovered and goring within me. Still, 
I had no time for brooding ; tasks were upon 
me which always called the mind away from 
itself into action. 

Another incident left a very strong, though 
disagreeable, impression. One day through 
the camp gate he marches, or rather is 
marched, under arrest for disloyal utterances 



AT CAMP 3IANSFIELD. 223 

in his newspaper, Editor Archie MacGregor, 
of Canton, the hard-headed Scotchman, 
harder-graiiled than any Scotch granite. Be- 
tween two soldiers with bayonetted guns, he 
steps in time, looking stoically through his 
green spectacles. No, I did not like it. True, 
he abused the right of free speech ; still it cem 
stand abuse, but not suppression. I turned 
away from the sight with the heartache, not 
for him, but for the country. And the same 
feeling was general, even among those most 
opposed to his sentiments. He was treated 
well in camp, was allowed its freedom, which 
he used for celebrating the Democratic vic- 
tory in the fall elections of Ohio (1862). I 
heard him boast : We have even carried the 
abolition district of Lorain for Congress 
** unless all the niggers in Oberlin have 
voted. ' ' Evidently he had no exalted opinion 
of my bi-racial college town. Some tried to 
elevate him also into a martyr for a free 
press, and naturally he was not averse to 
such distinction. So, in those days we had 
all sorts of martyrs on both sides, pro and 
con, until everybody began to feel martyred 
at so many martyrdoms. 

The Adjutant General of the State had 
suddenly quit us, being needed at Columbus. 
His purpose was to wind up Camp Mansfield; 
already it had begun to look deserted. In a 



224 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

week or so all the drafted men were mus- 
tered into the service and sent away; a few 
squads of enlisted men belonging to different 
regiments hung about a little longer, but 
these, too, were finally gotten rid of; only my 
own company of the Tenth Cavalry remained. 
I finished the last business at headquarters, 
which were then closed. I returned to my 
comrades and found them in an idle, rather 
demoralized condition ; they had drilled very 
little, had performed no duties, had gone 
backward if they had moved at all ; they had 
done practically nothing during almost three 
months which for me had been so busy and 
full. The Hellions were present and kept up 
their broils, of which I saw an ugly one start 
in the barrack, but it was soon suppressed by 
the rest of the company. 

Not long after my return to the company 
came the order to go to Cleveland, where the 
other companies of the regiment were in 
camp. So off we start. Thus ended my ex- 
perience at Camp Mansfield, in which I acted 
a wholly new part of life ; indeed, I still feel 
that I was there a kind of stranger to myself 
and lived in a strange world. 



AT CAMP CLEVELAND. 225 

II. 

At Camp Cleveland. 

Somewhere on the railroad train between 
Mansfield and Cleveland the roll was called; 
two men were missing. A search through 
every car failed to bring them to light. Evi- 
dently a case of desertion : the first that had 
happened in our company. Who were they I 
None other than the second group of Hellions, 
a slice of our infernal element. They had 
now completed one full round of the substi- 
tute repeater, the bounty jumper and the de- 
serter, and so broke away and started for 
some new field. How many such rounds they 
had already played I, of course, do not know ; 
but their substitute harvest was reaped for 
the present. One of them I saw afterwards 
at the front in an Indiana regiment. I in- 
quired about his adventure; it seems that he 
had wandered to Southern Indiana in pur- 
suit of his vocation, that he there tried to 
play his game upon the Hoosiers; but these 
knew their man and at once hustled him 
across the Ohio River to Louisville, where 
they put him under guard and straightway 
sent him to Rosecrans' battle-line, where I 
found him. His diabolic '' cousin '^ whom he 
now bitterly disclaimed on account of some 

15 



226 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

act of treachery, lie knew nothing about. 
Again it appears that the demons had fallen 
out with each other. 

The other group of our Inferno, the Bow- 
ery lads, were still with us, that is, two of 
them, for the third one, their best man, had 
been dangerously stabbed in a drunken brawl 
at a groggery in Mansfield, and had to be left 
behind at the hospital for several weeks. At 
last he will appear, in Camp Cleveland, when 
the final scene of our little demonic drama 
will enact itself — whereof a word later. 

We marched through the city by night to 
the barracks, which we found ready for us. 
The camp was located on an elevated piece of 
ground called the Heights, peculiarly exposed 
to piercing blasts from the lake. As we 
passed the line we saw cavalry recruits 
standing guard with muskets in their hands. 
From our boys rose an ominous shout, in 
which I did not join, ^^None of that for us!'' 
They had been spoiled by idleness at Mans- 
field, where they had practically no duties, 
and had gotten the notion that only infantry 
mounted guard. The next morning the com- 
pany was required to furnish its share of 
sentinels, who openly refused to perform the 
service. The matter was reported at head- 
quarters of the regiment, and soon a con- 
siderable squad of bluecoats with fixed 



AT CAMP CLEVELAND. 227 

bayonets, headed by a Lieutenant with drawn 
sword, bore down npon the mutineers and 
swept them into the guardhouse without cere- 
mony. There a parley was held, followed by 
unconditional submission; muskets were put 
into the hands of our frightened boys, who 
were marched to their places and began de- 
murely to pace their beats. Meanwhile at the 
barracks there was quite a hubbub ; a number 
of sympathizers began to bluster, when sev- 
eral strange officers appeared in their midst 
and silenced them with a sharp menace ; the 
culmination was reached when the Colonel 
himself collared a young fellow for a rash 
word and led him off to prison, at the same 
time flourishing a pistol in his face and ask- 
ing him the significant question, '*Do you 
want a pill ? ' ' Our boy said he did not, espe- 
cially of that kind, as he was not sick; but it 
was several days before we saw him again, 
much improved in meekness- I took no part 
in this little rebellion, and disapproved of it 
from the start; still, the outcome gave a 
healthy and much-needed lesson of that au- 
thority which was totally relaxed at Mans- 
field. Instead of one company, as hitherto, 
there were now ten, and discipline had to be- 
gin, and also work. One result of the affair 
was that our company got a bad name the 
first day with the rest of the regiment, and 



228 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

especially tlie Colonel (Smith by name) was 
prejudiced against the whole set of us; for 
which reason several had to suffer later, 
among others myself. 

I now settled down to my duties as a pri- 
vate soldier, trying to fulfill them to the ex- 
tent of my power. I drilled daily, though we 
were still without horses, and I, having pur- 
chased a book on Cavalry Tactics, learned 
its first commands by heart. Moreover, as I 
was a unit, though the smallest one, in the 
vast organization called the Army, and had 
to move with it mechanically, I wished to see 
a little into the working of the huge machine, 
and, if possible, to understand its principles. 
At Mansfield I found in a book store Jomini's 
*^Art of War", which I bought and studied 
there quite a little. Now I had more leisure, 
and so I worked at it with zeal, seeking to get 
some notion concerning the grand strategy 
with which it deals. I may add here that al- 
ready at Oberlin, expecting to be a soldier, I 
had perused with care a considerable part of 
that reputedly best of military histories, 
Napier's Peninsular War, tracing the cam- 
paigns of Napoleon and Wellington and their 
subordinates on a large map of Spain, and 
applying their principles, as well as I could, 
to our own military movements in the South. 
Thus I was getting some theoretical acquaint- 



AT CAMP CLEVELAND. 229 

ance with my new profession, though the 
practical side was as yet altogether wanting 
— and was destined to remain so, I may here 
whisper in advance, through the peculiar con- 
junctures of my army life. Still, I must 
record the persistent attempt of the puny in- 
dividual to know the great whole of which he 
was merest atom, to comprehend the vast 
clockwork of which he was less than a cog, 
to reflect the all in the small and smallest. 

The barrack was not wanting in amuse- 
ment. Most interesting to me were two char- 
acters, both in middle life, who never failed 
to grapple on the subject of religion. One of 
these, nicknamed Old Sol, was a worthy 
farmer, somewhat educated, who knew a little 
of literature and had a strange liking for 
Shelley. But he showed a peculiar spite 
against Christianity, and would begin a sharp 
tirade at any moment of leisure, though he 
never swore or drank or committed any 
moral violation, to my knowledge. His coun- 
terpart was Jones, who was a hot and ever- 
ready champion of religion, though he would, 
with great profanity, damn the infidels, get 
drunk on occasion, and, if one may judge by 
the amorous adventures which he recounted 
about himself as hero, he was the greatest lib- 
ertine in camp. Once about 2 o'clock at night, 
when all the rest of us were asleep, a furious 



230 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

discussion on Panl's conversion broke ont be- 
tween them, wliicli waked up every soldier in 
the barrack. I peeped out of my bunk to see 
what in the world had broken loose at that 
late hour, and observed the two men gesticu- 
lating, yelling at the top of their voices, both 
of them at once, and standing not far apart ; 
it looked as if they were about to come to 
cuffs over religion. Along the rows of bunks 
the hi3ads of the occupants were sticking out, 
looking and listening; I sprang up and sat on 
the edge of my bunk, from which I began a 
little speech of this sort : ^^Fellow-soldiers : I 
have a proposition to make ; I move that this 
religious war be put off till we have ended 
the political war in which we have enlisted. 
One war at a time is enough, says Lincoln. 
But when we have gone to the South and set- 
tled the rebels, and have come back, then we 
can take up this religious war again. All 
those who wish to enlist in it can have a 
chance, for we have actually present the two 
best captains of the opposing sides. Just 
now, however, I propose that we defer it, and 
make a truce in our barrack; to-night we 
need a little more rest, as to-morrow we have 
some work on our hands. All those, there- 
fore, in favor of one war at a time will say 
aye.'' Every one of those peeping heads 
^hot out a hearty aye with a laugh, aiad they. 



AT CAMP CLEVELAND. 231 

in chorus, reiterated, ''One war at a time; 
one war at a time," showing for one thing 
how Lincoln always could coin the popular 
and fitting catchword for the situation. The 
combatants themselves saw the point, and 
one of them at least joined in the laugh; soon 
both were in their bunks — they did not oc- 
cupy the same bunk — and gentle peace laid 
her soothing hand upon their mouths, and 
doubtless upon their eyelids also. The boys 
withdrew their heads along the line, and 
rapidly set about their regular business of 
snoring, just the thing for them to do at that 
time. I ought to add that these two religious 
contestants were good soldiers, always ready 
and willing to do their duty, without a grum- 
ble ; patriotic Americans both were, who had 
enlisted because they believed in the prin- 
ciple of the war, and were ready to offer 
their lives for their country. They were alto- 
gether different from the depraved set of 
Hellions, and also from the discontented 
conscripts; I must say that both were very 
congenial to me, especially on account of their 
right feeling in the great crisis of the Nation, 
when so many about us were corrupt, or 
soured, or even ready to give up. In this 
vital matter, then, the two agreed, and were 
remarkably alike ; but when they would begin 
their duet on jeiigion, all the discords of their 



232 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

natures started to grinding together in that 
mill of the Gods, of which each felt himself 
to be specially the miller. 

So I was again, happily, a private, and was 
performing my various duties in that ca- 
pacity. Among the other companies I found 
a number of old acquaintances whom I had 
known at Oberlin, since the regiment was 
largely recruited in the Western Eeserve of 
Northern Ohio. But the chief officials of the 
camp I had never even seen. Again, I was 
surprised one day by a summons to head- 
quarters, about two weeks or so after the ar- 
rival of our company. The chief assistant to 
Colonel Senter, the commandant of the camp, 
was going to leave, and it seems that some of 
my friends had recommended me for the posi- 
tion, which turned out to be one of consider- 
able responsibility, though it gave no increase 
of rank or pay; I was still simply a private 
detailed on special service. The request 
came to me as I was lying in my bunk read- 
ing Jomini; I went out to inquire about the 
sudden news, and found the Captain of our 
company, who knew of it and said, ^^All 
right''; the officer of the guard happened to 
be present and offered at once to pass me out 
of the lines in person ; this he did, and I was 
soon on the little hill where the Colonel's 
office stood, overlooking the camp- Here I 



AT CAMP CLEVELAND. 



233 



may state that there was a technical irregu- 
larity in my summons of which I was ig- 
norant, and of which the two officers with 
whom I conversed and who let me out the 
camp lines seemed also unaware: My detail 
had not passed through the headquarters of 
the regiment, from whose point of view I was, 
therefore, ''absent without leave.'' 

I found Colonel Senter in his office and 
spoke with him a few words, after which he 
assigned me my desk and set me to my first 
task, chiefly clerical. I recollect that the style 
and spirit of a letter I composed, offering 
pardon to a deserter who had run off to 
Canada, but who, having repented, wished to 
return to his regiment if the past were for- 
given, pleased him greatly. As I appeared 
to stand his test, he gradually left more and 
more in my hands; indeed, some days he 
never came to the office at all. He was at 
that time engaged in a fierce political strug- 
gle : he sought to be Eepublican candidate for 
Congress from the Cleveland district, but he 
had to beat in convention the representative 
holding the position. Meanwhile I had re- 
peatedly to decide cases of those who were 
brought to headquarters under arrest for de- 
sertion, but who often had their plausible 
grounds of excuse or defence. Offenders of 
various kinds I had to commit to the guard- 



234 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

house or prison by my high authority, though 
I was an humble private. Men guilty of 
crimes against the United States, but released 
on bail, were required to report to the Mili- 
tary Commandant at Cleveland twice a week ; 
they reported to me and I gave them the ac- 
knowledgement of the fact. Parents came to 
me to get back their sons under legal age, 
who had run off and enlisted in some organi- 
zataion of the camp. To one poor mother who 
came limping all the way from Toledo I 
helped restore twice her boy, who had en- 
listed both times in a battery among his com- 
rades. I saw that the youth was going to the 
war anyhow, so I gave her the following bit 
of advice : ^ ' Madam, you had better let your 
boy stay here with his friends, who will look 
after him and will write you if anything hap- 
pens to him; the next time he will run away, 
unless you jail him, and enlist in a strange 
regiment, and you may never hear of him 
again." Of course, she would not listen to 
such a proposition ; she was going to have her 
only child. I recollect still her deep, heart- 
heaving sighs, breaking now and then into 
sobs, as she leaned on her cane and walked 
with a kind of halting gait. 

So it happened at Cleveland, as at Mans- 
field, that, after a few days, I was called out 
of my little bunk to official service at head- 



AT CAMP CLEVELAND. 235 

quarters, though always as a private. It will 
be observed that my duties at Cleveland were 
very different from those at Mansfield — 
higher, I think, and I certainly felt myself un- 
der greater responsibilities. The camp was 
much larger ; it contained at this time two or- 
ganized regiments, several companies of 
sharp-shooters, one battery, and a lot of frag- 
ments recruited for different regiments in the 
field; these numbers, however, were always 
diminishing as the troops were sent to the 
front. I had no longer to deal with drafted 
men and substitutes, as at Mansfield; that 
part of the work was done. At first there 
must have been more than 2,000 men con- 
nected with headquarters in a sort of loose 
subordination, consisting of certain require- 
ments of routine which it fell to my duty to 
look after and regulate every day. In this 
limited sense, when the Colonel was absent, 
I exercised the functions of Commandant. I 
made out the quotas of guards, I ordeded de- 
tails of soldiers when I needed them, I put 
people into prison and let them out, of course, 
on grounds of which I had to be judge. 

One morning I was sitting at my desk when 
I heard three loud, sharp cries of a sentinel, 
' ' Halt ! Halt ! Halt ! ' ' In a moment the crack 
of a musket followed. I leaped to the door 
4nd saw the smoke rolling away; also I ob- 



236 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

served a man lying on the ground just out- 
side of the lines, about a dozen rods distant 
from me. I ran down the hill to him, and 
found him with a bullet hole in the calf of his 
leg, from which gurgled a profuse stream of 
blood. I recognized him at once, and started 
to strip off his gore-soaked garments, when 
the surgeons arrived and bore him to the hos- 
pital, which was not far off. Who was he? 
None other than one of our Hellions, the 
small one, called the Little Devil. He took 
it into his head to run guard ; the sentinel or- 
dered him to halt, the fellow refused to obey, 
when he was fired upon with the foregoing 
result. The wound was hardly a dangerous 
one, but with that distempered body of a 
Bowery boy blood-poisoning soon set in, and 
after a few days he died. Not long before 
this occurrence the leader of this infernal 
trio, having recovered from his stab at Mans- 
field, had come back to the company at Cleve- 
land. But as soon as their companion was 
under ground, the other two were missing, 
and they never appeared in camp again. 
Thus all the Hellions, both sets of them, van- 
ished out of the company which thereby had 
fairly gotten rid of its Inferno. I never saw 
or heard of either of the Bowery lads after- 
wards ; probably they found their way back to 
New York, where, in the later drafts, they 



AT CAMP CLEVELAND. 237 

had good opportunities for exercising their 
acquired skill in bounty-jumping and deser- 
tion. 

Thus the private had become, in a small 
way, a sort of generalissimo of an army com- 
posed of cavalry, infantry and artillery. Now 
for the counter-stroke of Nemesis, the grand 
leveler. I was sitting at my desk one morn- 
ing and making out a detail, when a very 
different sort of detail, not from me but for 
me, knocked at the door. A Corporal, accom- 
panied by a soldier with fixed bayonet, en- 
tered the office and asked me if I was Private 
Denton J. Snider of the Tenth Cavalry. I 
replied that I was. ^ * You may consider your- 
self under arrest for desertion, and you will 
go with me to the headquarters of your regi- 
ment'' The Corporal handed me a piece of 
paper confirmatory of what he had said. I 
was at first dazed, but soon rallied, though 
with intense throbs of emotion thumping my 
heart walls. ' ' Charged with desertion, ' ' dur- 
ing all the time I have been here attending 
to my duties! I was the only person in the 
place at the time, and so I asked the Corporal 
to accompany me across the street to the 
Commissary of Subsistence, a Lieutenant in 
rank, whom I knew, for I would have to leave 
the office in his charge. I mentioned briefly 
what had happened and showed him the or- 



238 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

der. The Lieutenant began to swear. The 
scene attracted three or four other people 
who attended to the considerable business in 
that department, and who knew me, as we all 
had eaten together in a common mess for 
weeks — they also took a turn at profanity. 
I said: *^I must not stay here longer, but 
obey at once this order. ' ' The Lieutenant re- 
plied: ^'Well, I'll look after the office till the 
Colonel comes." I glanced around; they 
were still gazing at me with sympathy, I 
think, when I descended the brow of the hill 
out of sight. I ought to add that the Corporal, 
whom I had never seen before, showed that 
he did not like his business, when he found 
out its nature from the talk he heard. 

So I was marched through the regimental 
lines alongside of a soldier with fixed bayonet, 
under the command of a Corporal, quite as 
I had seen Editor Archie MacGregor march- 
ing at Mansfield. And I was branded with 
what was, in my eyes, a worse offence, with 
desertion. I entered the regimental head- 
quarters and there sat Colonel Smith, the 
chief officer of the Tenth Cavalry, to which 
I belonged as private. When I reported to 
him my name, he opened a torrent of abuse. 
*^You disobeyed my orders," he cried. I was 
almost bursting with indignation at his un- 
just reproaches, but I summoned self-control 



AT GAMP CLEVELAND. 239 

enougli to reply: "If so, it was done in 
ignorance; I obeyed the summons of Colonel 
Senter, the Commandant of the post, whom I 
supposed to be your superior officer.'^ This 
nettled him all the more, as there had been 
previously some rasping about authority be- 
tween him and Senter, and he spoke disdain- 
fully of my desertion. I told him that I was 
no deserter and never had been, and that he 
must have been aware of the fact when he 
sent for me to the place where he knew I was 
stationed. With a scornful look he answered : 
"That is your status, sir.'' At this indignity 
the hot tears streamed down my cheeks, and 
my tongue refused to utter a word, clogged 
with the tide of feeling of defiance which 
sprang from a sense of injustice done by au- 
thority. I said and could say nothing, as my 
organ of speech seemed paralyzed, but I still 
remember what I thought at the time and 
would have uttered had I been able : ^ ' Take 
me and court-martial me, if you choose, and 
heap upon me the last disgrace, and then 
shoot me — I don't care." He must have 
noticed my agitation, as he dismissed me 
haughtily, saying : " Go to your quarters and 
get ready to do your regular duties as a pri- 
vate of my regiment." Of course, I obeyed, 
being glad to get out of the presence of the 
man, who, armed with his official rank, had 



240 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

unjustly inflicted upon me tlie deepest hu- 
miliation of my life. 

Now the wheel of my little destiny began to 
whirl about and revolve in the other direc- 
tion. Colonel Senter arrived at his office 
shortly after my departure, and was soon in- 
formed of what had happened by sympathetic 
friends who had witnessed the occurrence. It 
is said that he also became indignant, yea, 
profane — profanity being a universal weapon 
in war, even with good church members. At 
any rate, Colonel Smith was summoned be- 
fore him at headquarters. What happened I 
do not know, but rumor had it that Smith was 
gridironed. In the afternoon I went back for 
my clothing ; Senter was there and spoke very 
kindly to me : ^ ^ I have heard of your trouble ; 
don't feel bad. You will soon be here again; 
I need you.'' The next morning I was in a 
squad with musket in hand, about to set out 
on guard duty for the day as private once 
more, when a messenger arrived with a sum- 
mons to regimental headquarters. ^'What is 
the matter again T ' I asked myself with some 
perturbation, for I dreaded another scene. 
But Colonel Smith was now a different man, 
polite, almost friendly; he explained, or 
rather apologized : he did not mean to imply 
that I was really a deserter, but that there 
was an irregularity in my detail. I answered : 



AT CAMP CLEVELAND. 241 

*'If you had only said that, I would have 
agreed with you and there would have been 
no trouble.'' He then handed me a paper. 
''Here is a new order for you in correct 
shape; you will report to Colonel Senter as 
soon as possible." In an hour I was back at 
my desk, performing my customary task- 

I have given this experience the more fully 
as it made such a deep cut into my emotions, 
and, indeed, into my life. I did not wish to 
serve under an officer who could inflict upon 
me or upon any soldier without adequate rea- 
son such pain and such dishonor. Eeflecting 
upon the matter, I concluded to entertain the 
proposition of a Captain of 124th Ohio In- 
fantry, who had asked me to recruit some men 
and accept a commission in his regiment, 
which was already in the field. He was often 
at headquarters on business and had become 
acquainted with me there. Two or three 
times he had tendered me the offer, but I had 
refused, partly from the disgust at the chase 
for commissions which I saw around me 
everywhere and partly because I had not for- 
gotten the deception practiced upon me by a 
recruiting officer at Mansfield, which I have 
already confessed. He came into the office 
one day not long after the foregoing episode, 
of which he had evidently heard, and more 
pressingly renewed his proposal. I replied : 



242 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

^'Captain, I have been thinking that I might 
now accept your offer; tell me something 
about the terms/' He very frankly set forth 
what I had to do: I must assist him in re- 
cruiting a stated number of soldiers, and to 
that end furnish a contribution in money for 
expenses, of which he gave, as he knew his 
business well, the exact amount. In explana- 
tion of this last condition he said : * ' We must 
now furnish some funds ourselves, as boun- 
ties are no longer paid and the business of 
substitution has closed.'' Such was the fact, 
as I knew well. My response was that I could 
raise that sum of money, if necessary, but 
that I wished to take the matter under con- 
sideration for a couple of days. I added that 
my weakness was in soliciting recruits; I 
might not be able to get a single one. He 
answered: *^I shall see you out in that; do 
not be alarmed. ' ' He went away and left me 
balancing ; on a number of grounds I did not 
wish to make the change; but the degrada- 
tion inflicted upon me by Colonel Smith still 
rankled within me, even through his apology. 
So I stood at the parting of the ways ; which 
road shall I turn down! 

Meanwhile the business of the camp was 
drawing to an end, troops were rapidly leav- 
ing, soon all would be gone. In ten days or so 
headquarters would be locked up, and the hill 



AT CAMP CLEVELAND. 



248 



of authority deserted, when I would, of 
course, return to my regiment, which was 
now mounted and performing its evolutions 
on horseback. Even my horse had been se- 
lected, not by myself, for I was absent, but 
by some friends, and was reported to me as 
the best steed of the lot. But I was destined 
never to straddle its back, or even to see it. 
For about this time, two or three days after 
my conversation with him, the Captain al- 
ready mentioned appeared at the office, and, 
with a pleasant but watchful look, handed me 
a piece of paper. I opened it and read its 
contents with no small amazement; it was 
my discharge from the Tenth Cavalry, tele- 
graphed from Washington, if I recollect 
aright, at the request of the Adjutant Gen- 
eral of the State. Thus I was no longer a 
soldier of the United States Army. Then the 
Captain handed me another document even 
more surprising : it was a recruiting commis- 
sion for me as Second Lieutenant, which, 
when completed later, bore the somewhat pe- 
culiar signature of David Tod, Governor of 
Ohio. This was, however, a conditional com- 
mission whose completion depended upon my 
success in getting enlistments. The Captain 
had been at Columbus and had settled these 
matters in the way indicated. I had never 
really given him my full consent to the step 



244 ^ WRITER OF BOOK 8. 

he had taken, and I was still in doubt ; but lie 
had decided for me, and I could not well re- 
voke his decision and undo what had been 
done. 

III. 

As Receuiting Officee. 

There was still some business to be wound 
up at the office, so I remained there a few 
days after my appointment. Detachments of 
soldiers on their arrival had first to march 
to headquarters, to be registered and as- 
signed to their barracks. One morning I was 
called out before my door to receive a little 
squad of sharpshooters who had just reached 
camp (about fifteen men, I think), com- 
manded by whom — can you guess? By my 
Oberlin Munchausen, who had so hypnotized 
me for a while at Mansfield with dreams of 
promotion. But instead of being a Brigadier- 
General or at least a Colonel, which last rank 
he seemed to have no doubt of attaining when 
he had there conversed with me, he was sim- 
ply a Lieutenant, as indicated by his uniform. 
But the greatest change was in his demeanor ; 
he was actually modest, seemed humble, if not 
humbled, and spare-worded. I gently sought 
to tap that wonderful fountain of Arabian 
tales which used to jet so easily from his 
tongue, but it would play no more. I knew 



AS RECRUITING OFFICER. 245 

that lie had been in trouble, serious charges 
had been brought against him, but he 
must have been able to meet them in some 
degree, otherwise he would have been cash- 
iered. Still, he appeared so different from 
his former buoyancy, so downcast by some- 
thing that I pitied him. Indeed, at that time 
a well-head of sympathy was ever ready to 
gush within me at the least touch on account 
of my own recent experience. The same man 
afterwards found a peck of troubles at the 
front, but in wartime nobody, not even the 
most innocent, escapes the mighty outpour 
of fatality. 

During these days I chanced to meet Colo- 
nel Smith again, my horror of horrors. But 
he was very courteous and did the part of a 
gentleman; he went so far as to say that he 
would be glad to give me a commission in 
his regiment, if I would recruit a few men. 
Of course, I had to reply that it was too late 
now ; I was under obligations to another man. 
I have always thought that Colonel Smith 
tried to make amends for a hasty act. His 
side of the case I myself have never failed to 
see. Technically, he might justify himself 
according to the Army Regulations. Then 
he had at that time to deal chiefly with the 
refuse of the human recruiting material, upon 
whom a summary treatment often wrought 



246 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the best results. Still, Colonel Smith ought 
to have recollected that he was himself a 
volunteer and that the great majority of his 
regiment had enlisted from patriotism and 
faith in the cause, and would never think of 
deserting. Of course, he did not know me 
personally, but he was aware that I belonged 
to the ill-reputed Mansfield company which 
raised a petty mutiny in camp as its first 
day's exploit. That did not help me in his 
estimation, though, as already recounted, I 
had nothing to do with that fracas and disap- 
proved of it from the start — indeed, such talk 
at the barrack I deemed mere boyish gas, 
which would never explode into fact. 

The Tenth Cavalry was the last regiment 
to leave the camp, which, after its departure, 
was quite deserted, and looked very desolate 
without its bluecoats flying busily about it 
everywhere, like bees over a buckwheat patch 
in bloom. With regret, I saw them vanish, 
while I remained behind, having to start upon 
a new phase of my military experience. 

So I was now a recruiting officer myself, of 
which class I had seen a good deal at the two 
camps, on the whole with no great amount of 
admiration, though the majority of these offi- 
cers I regarded as fairly honest men doing^a 
necessary public service. They were, for the 
nonce, the pushing agents of the war machine 



AS RECRUITING OFFICER. 247 

(perhaps not dissimilar to the present agents 
for other machines) ; they had effrontery, 
they used puffery, and they in a pinch would 
resort to lying a little, sometimes more than 
a little. From what I had seen of the busi- 
ness I felt myself unfitted for it, yea, dis- 
cordant with it. Still, I was in the soup and 
must somehow swim out. Looking back, I 
may say here that I regard my change as a 
mistake and a misfortune. I had won in my 
company, and perhaps in my regiment, a cer- 
tain personal position which came from asso- 
ciation and service during six months and 
more. This position had no military rank or 
authority; it was purely an individual thing, 
acquired by myself; but that it had some 
power was shown in my episode with Colonel 
Smith, who found it out and paid some heed 
to it, I have to think. At any rate this pecu- 
liar position, gained from association with 
men through what you are and what you do 
among them and for them, I totally threw 
away when I went into a different and en- 
tirely unknown organization. To me it was 
worth more than any commission, which, in 
fact, had its true value only when obtained in 
consequence of such a position. Hence the 
act of Colonel Smith, or, rather, my act 
resulting from his, marks the chief turning- 
point of my military year. Up to this time 



248 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

my career had been continually on the rise, 
if not very brilliant; afterwards, from one 
cause or other, it amounted to but little in 
my opinion. Still, to-day I take pride in my 
ascent, which consisted of the work done at 
the two posts, at Mansfield and at Cleveland, 
when I was a private ; but I find little pleas- 
ure in my later career, though a commissioned 
officer commanding frequently the company. 
I know I did my duty; still I did nothing — 
nothing distinctive. I never succeeded, on 
account of various obstacles, in recovering 
my old position in the new associated group 
of people to which I was annexed, though I 
tried hard. 

First, during this my recruiting period, I 
took a trip to my home in Mount Gilead, pay- 
ing a visit to my kinsfolk and trying my luck 
at the new business in a small town and the 
adjacent country. It was about February, 
1863, when there was a general lull, a sort of 
rest from the excitement of the draft during 
the preceding autumn. The people were in a 
state of repose, and could not be roused to 
further exertion for the army at that time; 
indeed, they were impatient of being urged 
for more soldiers after their recent arduous 
and prolonged efforts to fill their quotas. 
Such was the feeling of the rural population ; 
they needed to catch breath before making 



AS RECRUITING OFFICER. 249 

another strenuous pull, which they did later, 
again and again. I, of course, made some ex- 
ertion, but only two or three worthless fel- 
lows appeared, who had been already in the 
army. I called for their discharge papers, 
and found written on each of them the omi- 
nous words: ^'This man is not permitted to 
re-enlist.'^ I described the situation in a let- 
ter to the Captain, who summoned me to 
Cleveland to assist him in the work there. 
So I packed up and left home without a single 
recruit. I may add, however, that I enjoyed 
my visit with my relatives, and had sufficient 
leisure to make numerous excursions in my 
library upstairs, where I renewed my ac- 
quaintance with many old friends among my 
books. It seemed a long time since I had seen 
them, after the close daily intimacy of years, 
and I felt then that with them in some way 
lay my future. I had been deeply engaged 
for months in something just the opposite of 
study and quiet thought — in the bustle and 
administrative activity of a military camp, 
from which I now experienced quite a reac- 
tion. So I had a real enjoyment for a week 
or ten days in glancing over old faces as I sat 
by the fire in the winter. I shall have to con- 
fess that I parted from them regretfully. 

When I returned to Cleveland I found that 
the Captain had opened a recruiting office in 



250 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the heart of the city, as there was no longer 
any camp. In that office I was to stay. It 
was now my lot to be brought into contact 
with a new phase of the dark side of the war, 
such as I had not seen in either of the camps. 
The fresh recruit was given temporary quar- 
ters, a few dollars in money, and a new suit 
in blue. The under-world of a large city be- 
gan to vomit up its human contents into our 
office. The so-called wharf rats, the slum in- 
mates, the drunken sailor — all of them penni- 
less, ragged, shelterless — would come to us 
and try to enlist for the sake of the little 
money, the new clothes and the lodging. Such 
a stream of outcasts as now started to drift 
before me I had never seen in my life, having 
dwelt hitherto only in the country or in small 
towns. Some such cases I had now and then 
observed among the substitutes at Camp 
Mansfield. I was inclined to reject the whole 
mass, but the Captain, when he was present, 
enlisted quite a number of them, so that we 
had in a few weeks a squad ready to be taken 
to the front. 

To be sure, not all who applied were of this 
class of outcasts. Still, something seemed to 
be the matter with every one of them. Sev- 
eral had quarreled with their wives, then ran 
off and entered the army out of spite, which 
act they soon regretted. Others had gotten 



AS RECRUITING OFFICER. 251 

into legal trouble of some kind, and had fled 
to escape prosecution. My best recruit, I 
think, was a solid farmer from Lorain or Me- 
dina County. He confessed to me that he, a 
married man and church member, had been 
entrapped by a girl, with the result that he 
thought it safer to go to war than to stay at 
home. Eunaway boys under legal age put me 
often into a quandary ; usually I would try to 
persuade them to go back home. One of these 
little fugitives the Captain enlisted. I wormed 
out of him the name and address of his fa- 
ther, whom I sent for and who came up from 
Painesville. He gave his consent, saying that, 
as the boy was bent on going to the war, it 
would be better for the parent to know at 
least where his son was. A young fellow from 
Western New York, old enough, but frail and, 
as I thought, consumptive, came into the of- 
fice and wished to enlist. I told him that he 
could not stand the service, and urged him 
to return home. But he insisted, and the 
Captain took him. Afterwards at the front 
he once came to my tent and brought me some 
of the delicacies which he had just received 
from his mother, saying : ^ ^ I shall never for- 
get your advice at Cleveland. You acted hon- 
estly by me, and I ought to have done as you 
told me. ' ^ Later, on a long, hot march, I saw 
him drop out of ranks and sit down on a log. 



252 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

pale and emaciated. I heard him say implor- 
ingly to the officer in charge: ''Let me stay 
here and rest a little while ; I shall soon catch 
up again. ' ^ That was the last time I saw him. 
A record which I have found speaks of him 
as having disappeared without leaving a 
trace. 

A squad of about twenty had been recruit- 
ed, and it was determined that I should take 
them to the regiment, which was then sta- 
tioned in Eosecrans's army on the battle line 
at Franklin, Tennessee. That squad was a 
mixed lot. Hardly half of them would make 
good soldiers, but the Captain was eager to 
fill up the ranks to the required number. Sev- 
eral were young boys, several more were con- 
firmed drunkards, and two had enlisted, as I 
found out afterwards, with the promise of 
some minor position in the regiment — a prom- 
ise which could not be fulfilled. Four of them 
kept pretty close together, and evidently 
formed one group; they were Germans, and 
turned out to be a survival of that old class 
which had thriven so bountifully some months 
before on the draft. My men were mus- 
tered at Columbus. I kept them under sharp 
surveillance till we reached the Soldiers' 
Home in Cincinnati, where we had to remain 
a day. Finally I marched them down to the 
wharf and put them safely on the Louisville 



AS RECRUITING OFFICER. 253 

packet. But the wretched boat delayed, 
and still delayed; the men loitered about on 
deck, till finally three of the hard drinkers 
ran across the gangway and rushed into a sa- 
loon — I after them. I brought them back, but 
not till each of them had guzzled toward a 
pint of whisky. When I returned I looked 
around after the others. Four were missing; 
that suspicious group had seen their oppor- 
tunity and had vanished in the crowd on the 
wharf. They were undoubtedly a remnant of 
that class, once quite large, which combined 
in one character the substitute-repeater, the 
bounty-jumper and the deserter. After a va- 
riety of adventures on the boat, at Louisville 
and at Nashville, I landed the rest of my men 
at the headquarters of General Granger, 
where they were enrolled and sent to their 
regiment. It was a great relief. I had hardly 
slept for a week in order to keep watch over 
this squad ever trying to fly asunder. I saw 
at Franklin the drill of division, brigade, and 
regiment, and thought that I should be doing 
that kind of work and learning my business ; 
but I was sent back North to assist the Cap- 
tain again and to endure another infernal 
spell of recruiting. The next squad was con- 
ducted to the front by the Captain himself, 
but his luck was even worse than mine had 
been. 



254 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

At last, after the lapse of several weeks 
more, another squad was recruited of about 
the same sort of men, and I was again depu- 
ted to take them to the army in the field. 
Moreover, I was now given a full commission 
and was assigned to a company, with orders 
to stay at the front. This time 1 succeeded in 
pulling the whole set through without the loss 
of a man, but only by keeping them under a 
continual guard of outside soldiers, whom I 
drummed up in one way or other. A Mich- 
igan Lieutenant, going with a detachment of 
his company down the river, helped me great- 
ly. But a Sergeant at Louisville, with a de- 
tail of twelve muskets, whom I was able to 
get from' a kind of encampment at midnight, 
saved me. Under my orders he hustled the 
sleeping men from their beds on the boat, and 
at the point of the bayonet he marched them 
through the deep mud, to well-guarded bar- 
racks, evidently made for such customers. 
He even stopped their cursing when it grew 
excessive as they floundered through a 
puddle. The next morning we all moved 
under guard to the train for Nashville, which 
had at every car door a gleaming musket in 
determined hands. The military straight- 
coat was now put on the men everywhere, to 
my great relief. Thus we were easily passed 
through the big machine, and ^et down quite 
on the battle line, our true destination. 



AT THE FRONT. 



255 



On the railroad several of the men who 
had been enlisted by the Captain came to me 
and entered into conversation. They declared 
they had been deceived, false promises had 
been made to them by the recruiting officer. 
They were just sobering up, were disillu- 
sioned, and were inclined to blame somebody 
for their temper and for their situation. I 
listened, and defended the Captain as well 
as I could. He had been perfectly fair with 
me ; he had fulfilled his part of the agreement, 
yea, more than fulfilled it. But when it came 
to enlisting a private, he would usually prom- 
ise what the man wanted — would make him a 
sergeant, a hospital steward, etc. I may say 
that I held aloof from such representations, 
though they belonged to the outfit of the suc- 
cessful recruiter. I certainly could not be 
called a success in this portion of my military 
career, which lasted some two months or 
more. But it was now at an end, and I was 
in the field, where a new stage of my experi- 
ence of the war began with some vigor. 

IV. 

At the Front. 

When I went to the regiment as officer, it 
had removed to a place lying about half way 
across the country between Franklin and 



256 ^ WRITER OF BOOK 8. 

Murfreesboro. On the front of Eosecrans at 
this point there was considerable activity of 
the enemy, which never came to a head in a 
pitched battle, but ended in skirmishes, some- 
times very lively, with infantry, cavalry and 
artillery engaged. I had barely gotten into 
my tent and fixed up my little cot when the 
bugle sounded ' ' Fall in ! ' ' and all the soldiers 
sprang into line, my own company included. 
I hardly knew what it all meant, till a shell 
whizzed over my head and told me with con- 
siderable emphasis. The Major came riding 
along, and spoke to me: ^ ^ Lieutenant, buckle 
on your sword and march with us.'' This I 
proceeded to do at once, taking my place in 
my company and starting to move, or, rather, 
trot at double-quick with the whole regiment 
toward the battle line in the direction of the 
firing, which was always getting hotter. We 
finally drew up in a patch of woods on the 
brow of a knoll behind some rude breast- 
works, and there awaited the attack. Can- 
non-balls tore through the tree-tops above our 
heads; the rattle of musketry was heard on 
our right, though we had not yet fired a gun. 
Off to the left was an extensive meadow, on 
which a brisk cavalry fight was taking place 
between the First East Tennessee, under 
Lieutenant-Colonel Brownlow, and some Con- 
federate troopers. Meantime our artillery of 



AT THE FRONT. 257 

six pieces had opened fire upon the enemy ^s 
battery, which could be plainly seen in a 
clump of trees across the prairie. This duel 
ended (it was reported) in disabling one of 
the enemy's cannon, which, however, he was 
allowed to carry off. Why we did not charge 
across the open meadow and capture the hos- 
tile battery I do not know ; I rather think that 
it is what we ought to have done, though I do 
not pretend to say that I was eager for it. 
A few wounded were brought in from the 
pickets and the cavalry; not a man was 
touched in our regiment, as far as I heard. 
There was desultory firing till evening. We 
stood in battle line the better part of the day, 
awaiting the onset of the foe, but making no 
onset from our side. I may say that not 
long afterward I saw one poor fellow having 
his leg amputated as he lay on the porch of 
a rude farm-house. So I had smelt war's 
gun-powder, had heard some of its more mod- 
est reverberations, and had seen a very little 
bit of its fatal results. 

Such was my first day at the front — a 
rather sudden initiative into my new calling. 
I undoubtedly had my little attack of the so- 
called "cannon fever,'' which has been so 
often described, notably by the poet Goethe, 
who seemed to be able to experiment with his 
emotions while under fire. One certainly has 

17 



258 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the feeling that he would be more comfortable 
somewhere else. There was no great danger, 
however, though there might have been, and 
just that was the rub. Can you hold out 
against your imagination? To stand up and 
be shot at, while you keep quiet, gives a good 
deal of time for the play of fancy, especially 
if you are untrained in fighting those inner 
phantoms which seem to spring out of the 
crack of gunnery. The shell buzzing over my 
head was my greatest enemy. It might be a 
hundred feet high, but it appeared to say in 
its very loud whisper that it was coming 
straight down upon the top of my head. I 
shall have to confess that I ducked my pre- 
cious noddle at every passing shell, however 
distant. It was an instinctive act, but I was 
ashamed of myself, even if I saw the sea- 
soned soldiers directly before me making the 
same capital gesture. Yet I was an officer 
and must not even seem to shrink. I con- 
tinued, however, making these unwilling nods 
to my fleeting guests of the air, in spite of a 
certain determination not to bend the neck. 
Finally I saw the Lieutenant- Colonel com- 
manding the regiment ride past, as a shell 
whisked just over our hats with a vicious Ser- 
pentine hiss, which had the sound of being 
intended just for us. He not only stooped 
head and shoulders, but crouched down 



AT THE FRONT. 259 

toward the mane of his horse, and then turned 
his face up toward the menacing monster with 
a startled look which fully appreciated the 
possible danger. Still he was a brave man 
and was later wounded in battle. But after 
such a high example I deemed that I, too, had 
a right to make this peculiar military obeis- 
ance, at least on my first introduction to the 
Goddess Bellona. 

In the present connection I may confess to 
the greatest scare of my army life, which oc- 
curred on the march to Chattanooga some six 
or eight weeks later. We were deploying 
through a strip of timber amid rather heavy 
skirmishing, when I heard the familiar sound 
of the shell, as I thought, whirring overhead. 
By that time I had become so used to the flight 
of this blustering bumble-bee that its buzz 
did not disturb me much. But now the noise 
did not appear to stream on beyond me, as it 
ought to have done, but stayed just above my 
head too long, I thought. So I began to duck 
down, and still further down ; but the ominous 
note continued to sing over me till I must 
have bent my body more than half way to the 
ground. Meanwhile I began thinking to my- 
self : '^Your time has come; the next moment 
will land you on the other shore ; review your 
past deeds in rapid panorama before step- 
ping beyond." Then the sound ceased; but 



260 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

for a second I hardly knew whether I was 
dead or alive. Like the Oriental sage, I 
seemed to see my whole life pass before me 
in a sudden flash. My hand touched a bush, 
and I began to awake from my dream, first 
placing m.y palm on the top of my skull, where 
the shell ought to have struck me, to discover 
whether any of it was left. I found it all 
there, bloodless, with locks disarranged, yet 
unsinged, though the brain inside was cer- 
tainly in a volcanic upheaval. I slowly raised 
my stooping body and looked around, taking 
again my place in the world which I had left 
a moment or two before. Nobody seemed to 
have noticed me, and I never told on myself. 
I still wondered where the mysterious shell 
had fallen in our group, yet as no mention 
was made of it, I did not call up the subject. 
But some days later I found out. We were 
encamped in a forest; all was quiet; I was 
lyin^ down on my blanket, eating my meal of 
hc./d-tack and bacon, when suddenly I heard 
overhead that same buzzing sound, though 
there was no shot, and indeed no enemy near. 
I looked up and saw a flying squirrel taking 
its flight from tree to tree, producing the same 
prolonged whirr which I had fancied to be 
that of a shell. So I think I may report that 
what scared me most as a soldier at the front 
was a flying squirrel. 



AT THE FRONT. 261 

I have already spoken of my first day on 
arriving at the front, and of its to me stimu- 
lating occurrences. I had barely seen the 
company to which I had been assigned by the 
Colonel, and had just become acquainted with 
its commanding Lieutenant, my immediate 
superior, with whom I had a tent in common. 
We were to live and to work together for the 
welfare of the same set of men. I began to 
make some inquiries about my duties, and 
asked him to tell me how I could best help 
him. I recollect that his first salutation to 
me was as follows : ^^ A person is a d — d fool 
who comes into an old regiment as a green 
officer. ' ' Such was the attitude which he took 
at the start, and kept it up as long as I was 
with him. It was clear that I would get little 
aid fr.om him in making good my deficient 
knowledge of drill. I now felt keenly my mis- 
take in not staying with my old regiment. The 
fact, however, is that his unfriendly remark 
had its truth, which I recognized, and I re- 
plied to him: ''I begin to think so myself.'^ 
I soon found out that he could not tell me 
much; what he knew was simply empirical. 
I doubt if he had ever studied a book on tac- 
tics. My plan of learning the commands and 
evolutions through the printed page he 
scoffed at. 

Such was the feeling of the officer just 



262 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

above me. On tlie other side, tlie feeling of 
the officer just below me was even more bit- 
ter. This was the Orderly-Sergeant of the 
company, who deemed that I had stepped 
into the place due him by actual service in the 
field. Again I rather sided with my de- 
tractor, and thought his claim just, though I 
was innocent. Thus I was regarded from 
above and from below as an interloper, and 
I soon found that the same view prevailed in 
the company and in the regiment likewise. 
Naturally I felt myself being ground between 
the upper and lower mill-stones, from which 
there was no escape. My situation here I 
found to be just opposite to that in the Tenth 
Cavalry, where I had served long enough to 
win the good-will of the company, and also of 
the regiment, to a degree. Thus the new- 
comer was plunged into a tide of prejudices 
from the start, some of which he shared him- 
self against himself. 

Still I resolved to make the most of a bad 
job, and started with alertness upon my vari- 
ous camp duties. But at this early date an- 
other evil pounced upon me, from whose 
clutch I could never fully free myself as long 
as I stayed in the army. The change of diet 
and of the way of living began to tell on me, 
and the hot climate of the South during sum- 
mer smote me in its peculiar way. My first 



AT THE FRONT. 



263 



week had not yet passed when a kind of flux, 
well known in the camp, seized me and laid 
me prostrate. I succeeded in recovering 
after some days of illness about one-half of 
my normal strength and health. With that 
half I rose from my cot and again went about 
my ordinary duties, but the trouble clung to 
me and would never let me regain, during my 
soldiering days, my other moiety of life. I 
went through the rest of the campaign hardly 
more than half a man. 

There was not much drilling — the thing 
which I most needed. Still, in a few days, 
with my previous knowledge, I picked up 
enough to get along. Indeed, there was little 
opportunity for such practice. Nearly every 
day the enemy demonstrated in some force 
against our immediate front; we all had to 
be ready to spring into line at a moment's no- 
tice. Nobody could tell when a serious attack 
might be made. It is now known that all this 
hostile activity along our lines was a mere 
feint for deceiving and delaying Rosecrans, 
in order that Bragg might send some of his 
troops to fight against Grant, who was then 
enclosing Vicksburg. I certainly was getting 
used to war's alarms. Meantime things 
amusing would occur. Across a meadow half 
a mile wide the two opposing lines were in 
the habit of skirmishing, often with all three 



264 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

branches of the service in action at the same 
time. By the side of a well-built causeway 
crossing this meadow stood a fine Southern 
mansion, with extensive negro quarters to 
the rear of it, which seemed to be well popu- 
lated with black women. When the picket 
firing started up in earnest these wenches 
would pour out of their shanties together and 
run across the wide field with all their might, 
bandannas streaming from their heads and 
petticoats flopping about their legs, in sight 
of the whole army, which was aligned on the 
brow of the ridge overlooking the meadow. 
Many a laugh and also joke, not a few of 
them unsavory, would be fired otf along the 
line of bluecoats who stood in full view of 
the scene, the main question being. Why do 
those slave women rush for the Union side, 
and not the other way! The answer usually 
given was that of their black lovers, and pos- 
sibly some white ones, too) were with us. My 
reply, or, rather, my thought of a reply, was 
different : Those poor darkies show a double 
duty-— they feel a loyalty to master and mis- 
tress, with whom they will stay and serve in 
peace, but in the pinch of danger they will 
flee to the white stranger, who they know is 
bringing them that dearest human boon, free- 
dom. 

During these weeks I saw a good deal of 



AT THE FRONT. 265 

the activity of war, with very little bloodshed, 
however. The firing on the picket line would 
blaze, np suddenly; the orderlies would gallop 
through camp at break-neck speed to and 
from headquarters ; the artillery would whip 
up its steeds and whirl in an awful dust and 
rumpus the cannon into position, which would 
at once start to belching smoke and shot, with 
a boom reverberating through the trees and 
over the hills. More silently, but more im- 
pressively, the blue patches of company, regi- 
ment, brigade, division, would joint them- 
selves together by a quick magic, and spin 
themselves out into a long battle line without 
a break — each little part, yea, each individ- 
ual, moving into place and forming a great 
whole at the word of command. Still no bat- 
tle, though all the noise, and, perchance, the 
anxiety, of it daily; the rebels seemed to be 
practicing us in the pomp and circumstance 
of glorious war without -hurting us. I have 
no doubt that their numbers were relatively 
few; they were blustering, trying to make 
us believe that they were a vast multitude. A 
skillful swoop on our part would have prob- 
ably bagged the entire batch. But the whole 
army was at this time McClellanized with a 
paralysis of over-caution and the audacious 
rebels played bluff upon us with a grand im^ 
punity. Even in the West was felt the in- 



266 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

fluence of that strange Potomac soldiership 
which was so addicted to taking the enemy's 
shadow for substance, and to seeing in his 
empty shows the solidest reality. But the 
first grand act of relief was soon to come — 
whence I 

Some two or three weeks had passed in 
this way, when the regiment received orders 
to move to the extreme left of the Army of 
the Cumberland and to stop at a little hamlet 
where General Hazen had command. We 
marched across the country through Mur- 
freesboro, practically along Eosecrans' 
whole front, and through an important por- 
tion of the famous field of battle, which had 
been fought about six months before and 
still showed many a sign of the furious strug- 
gle. During these days I succeeded in get- 
ting an opportunity of having a short visit 
with my brother, a brave boy, four years 
younger than myself, who was a member of 
the 65th Ohio, Harker's brigade. 

We reached our little hamlet of not more 
than half a dozen houses, and put up our 
tents solidly under the supposition of a long 
stay. Imagine my surprise when word flew 
along the regimental line, late in the after- 
noon, just as I was driving into the ground 
the last peg for my improvised bedstead, that 
we must at once pull up and pack our things 



AT THE FRONT. 267 

again, in order to be ready to start on a long 
march early tlie next morning. All unneces- 
sary baggage, sncli as desks, stools, clothing, 
etc., was to be thrown into a big pile and 
carted back to Nashville, whilst we, stripped 
to the smallest needs, were to make a mighty 
Inrch forward across the country toward the 
Tennessee Eiver in search of the enemy. 

It would seem that Eosecrans had at last 
started, after many urgings from the War 
Department at Washington, and after repeat- 
ed remonstrances of Grant, who sought to 
keep Bragg, the Confederate General in our 
front, from reinforcing the Southerners in 
their attempts to raise the siege of Vicks- 
burg. And it was indeed high time. As our 
regiment moved into the main road we ob- 
served large quantities of provisions burn- 
ing — a great pile of boxes of army crackers 
and of barrels of meat, with numerous other 
articles which could not be taken along or 
sent back — for instance, my half-worn panta- 
loons and my old shoes. Also my Jomini I 
had to give up, and two or three other books, 
not to be burned but to be stored, with the 
hope of getting them again ; but I never saw 
them afterward. My little flexible Horace I 
still kept in m}^ breast pocket, and often dal- 
lied with the poet's Lalage and other dreams 
during idle moments on the picket line. It was 



268 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

reported that a few hours after our departure 
a hungry and ragged rebel regiment of cav- 
alry dashed into the place and rescued from 
the flames a large part of the provisions and 
clothing, with which they filled their empti- 
ness and covered their nakedness, at least 
in part. Furthermore, a sutler of one of our 
regiments, who could not so suddenly get 
away, they caught with all his delicacies, eat- 
able and drinkable, and had a grand feast on 
the spot, with speeches — one by Billy Breck- 
inridge, of Kentucky, as the rumor went. 
They also relieved the poor fellow of his 
greenbacks as contraband of war, leaving 
him only a tattered paper piece of ten cents 
and another of five cents. These remnants of 
his fortune he displayed to view when he had 
caught up with us a few days later, amid the 
suppressed sympathetic titter of the brigade. 
On the first evening of our march the rain 
started to pour down, and persisted in re- 
maining the chief enemy of our advance. I 
took my first taste of sleeping on the wet 
ground, with showers dashing into my face 
during the night. Our long blue line thread- 
ed its way over slippery hills, through drip- 
ping forests, on very primitive roads or on 
none at all. Soon the brooks and creeks, and 
even the common gulleys, were full of roar- 
ing streams, which, of course, we had to 



AT THE FRONT. 269 

wade and then to hurry on. I possessed a 
rubber blanket, but it was soon sopping wet 
and no longer shed the rain. Now and then 
the sun came out, sometimes staying long 
enough to dry us, but this was simply to de- 
lude us with vain hope, for soon the clouds 
would gather again and we would be doused 
in another celestial downpour. Thus it went 
on for nearly twenty days, according to my 
recollection, not a day of which failed to send 
a drenching shower, frequently two or three 
of them. We marched along in garments 
which would trickle with little jets of water ; 
we splashed through the mud and forded 
madly-dashing torrents, which at times would 
moisten our necks. At night there was noth- 
ing to do but to lie down to peaceful slumber 
on the soaked leaves or grass ; not seldom my 
couch was a puddle of water, which would be 
spread out under me during the night from 
the clouds above. Once I was literally washed 
out of bed beside what seemed a little brook 
when I lay down in the evening, but at mid- 
night it had become a roaring cataract. I 
deemed myself lucky if I secured a fence-rail 
for a cot, which would lift me out of the water 
on the surface of the ground. I remember 
that I could curl up on the side of it, which 
might ba three inches wide, and take my 
night's rest for the next day's march. Indeed, 



270 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

I learned to turn over on the rail's edge dur- 
ing sleep without tumbling off into the pool 
around it everywhere. Now and tlien^ how- 
ever, the water would overtop my rail and 
keep me for a while in a permanent bath, 
which I endured for the sake of repose. I 
recollect of hearing often in the night the rain 
pattering on my rubber blanket as on a roof. 
But what was more serious, the supply of 
food was threatened. The wagons of the 
commissariat could not possibly be hauled 
over the miserable roads with any degree of 
speed; they had to pass plunging streams, 
unbridged rivers and steep, slippery hills, 
with valleys of deep mud in between. After 
a few days we were without rations, and the 
boys often experienced a longing for some 
of ^'the hard-tack and sow-belly" which they 
saw blazing so finely when they set out. 
Fortunately there was some forage to be 
picked up along the road — a few chickens and 
pigs, as well as some potatoes, fruits and ber- 
ries. At last we struck the line of railroad 
running from TuUahoma to McMinnville, 
between which lies the town of Manchester, 
where we again went into camp for several 
weeks. The lagging wagon trains finally 
came up, though quite empty, but the railroad 
soon brought us ample supplies. Still, before 
this took place the soldiers had begun to feel 



AT THE FROI^T. 271 

the pinch of hunger. I heard one poor fellow 
say : ^ ' I have eaten my whole ration already ; 
I shall have no food till to-morrow, and still 
I feel voracious just now.'' Officers pur- 
chased crackers and bacon for their mess 
from the commissariat; I bought an extra 
supply, and with it the boys of the company 
had a feast to their stomach's content, bring- 
ing their appetites down to date. Blackber- 
ries had just begun to ripen and were very 
abundant, in the neighborhood; with his 
crackers and sugar the soldier would cook 
them into puddings, pies, soups, making quite 
a variety of savory dishes. 

The march, however, with its continued hot 
weather, had still further undermined my 
health and left in me traces of a weakened 
constitution, which I often can still feel. Cer- 
tainly I have never been very robust since. 
It is my opinion now that I ought to have 
resigned, gone back home and, after recuper- 
ation, started in again. Still I resolved to 
stick. The untoward circumstances which 
seemed to crush upon me from the outside, 
without any special fault of my own, as far as 
I can see, begat in me a certain obstinacy 
to fight against fate, which is, I imagine, a 
trait of my character. I declined even to 
change my position to what was supposed to 
be a better. A friendly Lieutenant of the 



272 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Tenth Cavalry, .o whom I had once done a 
small service, rode from a distant part of the 
front to our regiment and inquired for me. 
I happened not to be there, but was on picket 
duty. He followed me thither and imparted 
to me the object of his errand. He thought 
I could get a place on General Van Cleve's 
staff if I would allow him to use my name. 
I thanked him and answered him somewhat 
as follows: ''I believe that I ought to stay 
here and work out my problem if I can. It is 
true that I have had almost no drill in the 
regiment ; still, as you see, I have already in 
a few weeks caught up enough to maintain 
my position. I perform my share of camp 
duties; I often command my company; I go 
out on the battle-line and skirmish; we may 
have a little brush before you leave, and you, 
being mormted, can be my orderly. The great 
question with me is that of health, which I 
hope to regain as soon as this hot weather 
passes ; if I cannot, I must pull out for a time 
and then start over again. I do not pretend 
to be in love with my present position or my 
associates; still, if I should go with you I 
would only be a weakling, a half man in ac- 
tivity and strength. I am indeed now not a 
half of what you used to see at Camp Mans- 
field. Much obliged to you, my good friend; 
I shall have to decline your offer, but I shall 



AT THE FRONT. 



273 



to the end of time remember your kindness, 
wliicli comes as a peculiar blessing to me un- 
der my present depressing circumstances." 

The Lieutenant was astonished at my re- 
fusal, since staff positions were much sought 
after by the smaller officers of the line. This 
fact I had already noticed repeatedly. My 
immediate superior, for instance, would have 
given a pint of his precious blood for such a 
place, if I may judge from certain expres- 
sions. Moreover, I did not deem myself 
competent for any position of the sort, which 
must have had its special duties and respon- 
sibilities. Finally I did not think that there 
was the least chance of my getting it, should 
I apply, in spite of the assurances of my en- 
thusiastic friend, who had showed his good- 
will, or, what is deeper, his good heart, by 
the trouble which he had given himself for 
me. 

While we lay encamped at Manchester, 
news came of that great historic Fourth of 
July made memorable by the battles of Get- 
tysburg and Vicksburg. We all hoped that 
the war might speedily close, and one may 
well think that if wise statesmen had been 
at the head of the Southern Confederacy the 
two sides would have come to terms, un- 
doubtedly with the Union restored and slav- 
ery abolished, but with quite everything else 

18 



274 ' A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

saved to tiie South which she afterward lost, 
being spared likewise the sufferings of recon- 
struction, almost as great as those of war. 
Vicksburg revealed also the -grand new trend 
toward the final triumph of the Union cause, 
which was to come from the West, not from 
the East, as had been hitherto supposed; in 
fact, the victorious round of the Western 
army began soon its march from the Mis- 
sissippi eastward, not to stop really (though 
it apparently was stopped) till the sur- 
render at AppomattoXo With the best 
good-will on the part of the historian, he 
will have to consider Gettysburg as a nega- 
tive victory, as far as the great end of the 
war, the restoration of the Union, was con- 
cerned; after it the two opposing armies 
simply fell back to their old positions, before 
each of which yawned that chasm of division 
between North and South, deep as hell, over 
which chasm neither army seemed able to 
pass without bloody disaster. In that case, 
however, separation was a fact, a success. 
On the other hand, Vicksburg was a positive 
victory, won very emphatically on the other 
side of the chasm, on the Confederate side of 
it, not to be recrossed by that Western sol- 
diery till they marched home in peace. That 
the fall of Vicksburg was the chief pivot of 
the war in its turn toward the end might even 



AT THE FRONT. 



275 



then be faintly seen (I do not say or think 
that I saw it in camp at Manchester, though 
I pondered not a little over the two mighty 
events) ; but that the war was not yet wound 
up was soon made plain to us by the new 
order, ^'Forward, march/ ^ 

Our objective point was now Chattanooga. 
During this march we were not assailed from 
the skies with cataracts of rain. On the con- 
trary, we had to climb up skyward, often 
with great toil. Mountains now placed them- 
selves in our path, with their steep ascents 
and bad roads. Soon the trains were behind, 
and we had to live on what we could get from 
the country, which fortunately supplied us 
generously with green corn. Peaches were 
very abundant and just getting ripe. I often 
had to wonder at the quantity of peach trees, 
which seemed to grow everywhere, even in 
the woods. Still, such a diet could not long 
take the place of bread and meat. We were 
hungry for days, officers as well as privates. 
The Major of the regiment rode through the 
company's tents one evening, shaking a ten- 
dollar greenback in his hand and offering it 
for a cracker. He did not get the cracker. 
At last we came to the topmost ridge of the 
Cumberland range, or, rather, of an outlying 
spur of the same, up whose steep side we had 
to mount, under the blazing Southern sun of 



276 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

midsummer, a little before noonday. I be- 
lieve tins climb to have been the most des- 
perate physical effort I ever put forth in my 
life. The regiment could hardly march its 
length without a rest. The soldiers, at the 
command to halt, would be panting, with 
tongues lolling out like dogs, in the excess of 
their fatigue, after going only a few rods. 
There was no water to be had, and the thirst 
became maddening, especially on top of an 
empty stomach. There were some moist spots 
here and there visible in the dust of the road- 
side — remains of the heavy dew which the sun 
had not yet reached owing to the protection 
of the shade of trees or of bushes. Upon 
these slightly damp patches the men would 
fling themselves and bury their hands in the 
cooling dust, or even wash their faces with it 
for the sake of the little drop of refreshing 
moisture. I saw one poor fellow actually 
lick the ground with his tongue in the frenzy 
of his thirst. The bugle would sound, which 
meant that all must rise from their prostrate 
position to their feet and march another few 
rods. With the greatest difficulty they could 
be gotten to stand up. As officer, I had to 
go around and to prod several with the tip of 
my sword scabbard before they would move ; 
then I heard again deep curses of the war. 
As for myself, I was weak and unwell, and I 



AT THE FRONT. 



277 



felt like lying down on a bed of leaves which 
I saw there and breathing my last in solitary 
peace; but responsibility nerved me to my 
task without letting me think on myself or 
giving me time enough to give up. Finally, 
after a life-and-death struggle of more than 
two hours, harder than any battle, we 
reached the comb of the Cumberlands, bring- 
ing the ambulances full of the mountain's 
wounded — not, indeed, bleeding from bul- 
lets, but sun-shot we may call them. Upon a 
little plateau we found a well-head of cold, 
bubbling water, which ran off in a pellucid 
brook, into which we all waded with shoes off 
after drinking of it. Never before or since 
has a fountain seemed to me so divine, ap- 
pearing to us as a merciful goddess in person, 
and alleviating our sorest need. No wonder 
the old Greeks could see a nymph or naiad in 
each little brook or stream. On our first 
march we had too much water, and felt like 
cursing it; on this second march there was 
too little of it, and when we at last found it, 
imprecation changed to a kind of reverence. 
After a rest and a meal we began our de- 
scent on the other side — an easy way to 
travel, even down to Inferno {facilis descen- 
sus) — too easy in this case to be memorable. 
We entered the Sequatchie Valley and moved 
forward to a spot not far from the Tennessee 



278 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

River, where again we went into camp for 
some weeks. The interesting fact here was 
the strong Unionism of East Tennessee. The 
welcome to the bluecoats was hearty every- 
where; tlie men came out of their hiding 
places, in which they had been secreted for 
fear of the remorseless Confederate conscrip- 
tion. The young fellows were all in the 
Union army, and each mother had her tale of 
anxieties and hardships. The first day I was 
on picket dnty. The leading man of the lo- 
cality, a doctor, came to my line with im- 
portant information, he said. I sent him to 
our General's headquarters, where he was 
well known by name and warmly saluted. 
The women would snuff and dip and smoke 
dog-leg ; they would flock into camp to see the 
Yankees. They were entertained with the 
music of the brigade band, but their chief de- 
light seemed to run toward our tobacco. In- 
credibly ignorant they were, even in re- 
gard to the war; but their instinctive devo- 
tion to the Union was to me very affecting. 
They declared that there was only one rebel 
in the neighborhood; a woman pointed out 
his house to me with a vengeful look and 
word which bespoke the feud. One of the 
chief mistakes of the war on the Northern 
side was that the Federals did not at once 
march into East Tennessee after the victory 



AT THE FRONT. 



279 



of Mill Spring, and organize it for the Union 
cause. It is said that Thomas wished to do 
so, but that Buell vetoed the plan. 

After some days, an order was received 
one evening, just after supper, that we should 
all be ready to march in an hour. We started 
just with the peep of the moon over the rear- 
ward Cumberlands, and pushed forward rap- 
idly all night without a stop, our path being 
always illuminated by the friendly lunar lamp 
hung up for us in the sky. With sunrise we 
reached the pebbly shore of the Tennessee 
Eiver, rippling and sparkling under the first 
slanting beams of the solar luminary. I 
gazed at it with delight, though I had hardly 
strength enough left in me for a single joy. 
We all lay down and took a morning nap of 
a couple of hours, when again the bugle 
sounded, and we were shaken out of the deep 
slumber of body and soul wearied and worn, 
to renew the march. After a bite of break- 
fast along with its cup of coffee, we came to 
the shelving edge of the Tennessee, which 
was cold and clear, shallow but wide, and 
quite swift at this point. We were ordered 
to pull off our shoes and carry them, then to 
roll up our pantaloons as far as possible and 
wade in. As we descended into the rapid and 
chilly current I could barely keep on my feet, 
which would often slip in the ooze of a stone 



280 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

or be gored by a sharp-pointed rock. But the 
chief battle was with the hurrying stream, 
which seemed bent on whirling me up by the 
heels, and thus carrying me on its back, or, 
as I began to think, on its bier. When I 
raised one foot to take the next step it 
seemed as if I would be swept away if I did 
not at once set it down again. Indeed, at 
the deepest part I dared not raise my foot- 
soles from the bottom of the river, but 
pushed my toes along over the stones 
like a thousand-legged worm. Once I did 
tread on the sharp edge of a slate, and 
down I went in a complete bath, and was even 
floating, when a soldier added a little of his 
strength to my remaining bit, whereby I re- 
covered my footing. Our small drummer boy 
could not stand by himself in the current, but 
toppled over, while his drum was seen gaily 
dancing down-stream, with one of his drum- 
sticks (the other he clung to), while he began 
to bob up and down in the water and to 
scream. I tried to help the little fellow, but 
really I could not help myself; I dared not 
lift my foot to get to him. The Colonel hap- 
pened to see the scene from his perch on his 
horse, and ordered the color-bearer to assist 
the boy, whose musical implements were 
picked up by a wading soldier further down, 
before whom they were merrily playing a 



AT THE FRONT. 281 

kind of rack-a-tack on the wavelets of the 
stream. This color-bearer was the tallest 
man in the brigade, being not far from seven 
feet high. When his pantaloons were rolled 
up to his crotch he stalked, with his long, bare 
legs, into the water like a flamingo and waded 
with ease through the swift current, in the 
middle of which he unfurled his flag and 
waved it in a sort of bravado, not only at the 
rebels over the river, but at the regiment 
floundering through the stream behind him, 
as if to boast: "Here I am the leader of you 
all. ^ ' At last the bottom began to slant shore- 
ward to an island conveniently situated half- 
way across the river bed. Upon this chari- 
table oasis we lay down and took a good rest. 
In a moment my eyelids fell together; I 
drowsed and slid off into a gentle slumber 
there upon the grass, owing to my lack of 
sleep during the previous night and to the re- 
newed fatigue. Again I was waked by the 
stern command of the bugle, though I could 
hardly pull apart my eye-lashes. Again I 
wished that the grassy bed under me might 
be my last rest. But a friendly hand reached 
me a cup of coffee, with some crackers, and, 
what I remember with a special gratitude, a 
large bunch of luscious grapes called often the 
Muscatel, which grew wild in great profusion 
on the island and could be plucked almost 



282 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

anywhere. I succeeded in culling several 
clusters and devouring them during my walk ; 
they seemed to give me strength and courage 
to make the second plunge into the other half 
of the Tennessee. 

This portion of the river, though quite as 
wide as the other, was not so swift, and hence 
not so difficult to ford; otherwise I believe I 
could not have pulled myself through, weak 
as I was. Still, a peculiar incident occurred 
during the passage, which I remember, as well 
as my feelings about it. The carcass of a 
drowned negro came floating past us from 
above somewhere. More than one soldier, 
wrestling with the current, spoke outright: 
^ ' Well, he is free of our trouble, anyhow. ' ' I 
said nothing, being an officer in authority, but 
internally I echoed the sentiment even more 
deeply: ^^ Would that I were in his place.'' 
Finally again we began to creep up the shelv- 
ing shore to the bank, and the crossing was 
complete. This passage of the Tennessee, as 
it lies in my memory, was quite as trying as 
the ascent of the Cumberlands, with one very 
material exception — there was no crazing 
thirst. We had plenty of clear, cool water; 
indeed, just a little too much of it. Thus the 
suffering was not so great, though the physi- 
cal effort must have been about the same, 
being pushed in both cases to the very top- 
notch of human exertion and endurance. 



AT THE FRONT. 



283 



We were now on tlie Southern side of the 
great river, which hitherto seemed a boundary 
line between us and the enemy. Chattanooga 
had fallen without a blow, and we were push- 
ing for Georgia. It was known that. Bragg, 
the Confederate commander, was receiving 
reinforcements and would soon be in a condi- 
tion to turn on his pursuers. I was detailed 
with a squad to assist and guard the trains 
in crossing the river. We picked up a Con- 
federate soldier in his gray uniform; a pris- 
oner he claimed to be, in his Irish brogue, but 
was probably a deserter, or he might have 
been a spy, which I rather suspected to be his 
character. With our other duties we could 
not keep close watch over him, and he might 
have escaped a dozen times, but his mind did 
not lean that way, so Pat was brought without 
trouble to our headquarters. The long line of 
wagons passed the stream without accident 
and moved at once toward the front, where 
the boys needed some of its bounties, especi- 
ally some of its large store of salt, for a hand- 
ful of which our Confederate Patrick over- 
whelmed me with a deluge of his grateful 
blarney, declaring that he had tasted nothing 
of the kind for months. I climbed into a load- 
ed wagon and threw myself down on a cotfee 
sack, a luxurious jolting bed, on which I en- 
joyed a ride and a sleep of several hours. 



284 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

About noon we came to a place where two 
important roads crossed, and where in the dis- 
tance I saw a line of soldiers lounging about, 
yet with stacked arms. On approaching closer 
I found them to be the Kentucky regiment of 
our brigade, whose men were jabbering, swag- 
gering and staggering in the strangest sort of 
way. It was soon plain that they were all 
drunk. But how could they have gotten so 
much of their favorite Bourbon down here? 
I spoke to some of its officers, whom I knew, 
and inquired eagerly: ''What's up nowT' I 
was told that, on account of repeated rumors 
of bands of rebel cavalry lurking in the neigh- 
borhood, the regiment had been detached to 
protect the train from possible attack. But 
one thing seemed pretty certain — a deter- 
mined company of horsemen could have cap- 
tured the whole regiment in its present condi- 
tion. I was startled both at the news and at 
the situation, for we also had been hitherto 
very careless, loitering along and riding in 
the wagons, not suspecting any danger. I 
proceeded at once to get my little squad in 
fighting trim, and in case of emergency to pro- 
tect, as far as possible, our protectors, most 
of whom could not protect themselves. For- 
tunately no peril appeared, and after the first 
excitement my own blue-bloused lads wished 
to get a swallow for their stomachs' sake, or, 



AT THE FRONT. 



285 



rather, many swallows of that exhilarating 
liquid, I being even more eager to keep it 
from them in any large quantity. A Kentucky 
officer told me the story. His regiment 
was halted at this point and ordered to wait 
for the train. Some of the men went foraging 
as usual, and found in an outhouse belonging 
to a planter's mansion just at hand several 
large hogsheads of apple brandy, whose fau- 
cets they at once turned and then helped them- 
selves. They carried a sample of the liquor 
in their canteens to their comrades, and also 
imparted the news, keeping the whole thing 
hidden from the officers till the entire rank 
and file of the regiment was supplied. Of 
course the secret was soon found out, or, 
rather, it leaked out of itself, and a guard, 
commanded by a Captain, was placed over the 
precious fluid, so that the privates could get 
no more ; then the officers had their turn. Stil], 
of these I saw none intoxicated or unfit for 
duty. A Kentucky Lieutenant, whom I knew, 
came up to me and whispered in a low tone: 
^ ' Now is your chance ; you can get some. ' ' I 
thought that a small dram after so much ex- 
ertion would not hurt my boys, and certainly 
I needed a little cheer myself ; so I slung three 
canteens over my shoulders and went to the 
outhouse, which was only a few rods distant. 
There I easily passed the guard and filled all 



286 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the canteens, taking a couple of swallows my- 
self, with an immediate improvement of my 
temper, I thought. The kind Kentucky Cap- 
tain in charge said, with a genial, hospitable 
smile : ^ ^ Come back again and pay us another 
visit." I had enough to go around, giving 
to each of the boys a respectable draught, suf- 
ficient to stimulate but not inebriate. Then I 
put them in line and felt impelled to make a 
little speech : ' ^ Now, boys, we must stay just 
here. I do not wish any straggling. The en- 
emy is reported hovering near by, and we 
must be ready to meet him at a moment's no- 
tice. If a troop of cavalry should now bear 
down upon us, you can easily see that you are 
.the fittest men to receive them. We have, and 
shall ha.ve for an hour or two at least, a spe- 
cial responsibility, few though we be. I prom- 
ise you, however, that as soon as our com- 
rades yonder get sobered up somewhat, I shall 
give you another small banquet. But the last 
wagon must safely pass first. ' ' Then I called 
up to my side one of my soldiers. Big Hon (so 
nick-named), a notorious toper, who had al- 
ready caused me trouble enough with his 
whisky- drinking at Cleveland, where he was 
enlisted, and especially at Cincinnati, where 
I had to push him out of a levee groggery 
aboard the packet for Louisville. I spoke to 
him: ''Now, Hon, I know that two drams of 



AT THE FRONT. 287 

liquor mean less to you than one dram to 
any one of tlie rest of us. There is a little left 
in this canteen, so I shall give you a double 
portion." Hon took it thankfully and swal- 
lowed it at a gulp, amid the laughter of the 
crowd; but the curious result was that three 
or four others at once reported as topers also 
and wanted their second swig. As they were 
honest men in this matter, I squeezed the last 
drop for them out of all three canteens, and 
then deployed the little band at favorable 
points for watching any rising squall, saying 
to them finally: "Vigilance now for one good 
long hour, and possibly a little more, and the 
danger will blow over.'' But not a speck of 
menace appeared anywhere on the horizon; 
the last wagon of the train rolled by in 
safety ; the Kentuckians began to get into line 
preparatory to a start; we whirled into the 
road in advance of them — I not forgetting to 
fill the three canteens again for the boys, with 
a double portion for Hon and a drop or two 
extra for the other self-confessed topers. Of 
course I did not wholly neglect myself, and it 
so happened that I, doubtless more than any 
other man of the company, needed just this 
little stimulant in order to pull through. The 
boys were happy, though certainly not intoxi- 
cated, and sang songs in their jollity, while I 
trudged along, silent and weak, yet glad to 



288 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

be able to put one foot before the other. But 
this was destined to be my last military act, 
winding up my service in the faint shadow of 
a little exploit. 

After some hours we drew into Ringgold, 
Georgia, where the brigade then lay. I 
brought my men to our regiment and dis- 
missed them to their respective companies. 
As I passed regimental headquarters, the Ad- 
jutant handed me a paper, which I opened and 
read. My resignation, which I had sent in 
not long before, had been accepted. Both sur- 
geons — one of the regiment and the other of 
the brigade — had declared that I was physi- 
cally unfit for duty, or, as it was put, incom- 
petent for further service. I certainly thought 
so myself. There was some hitch, I recollect, 
about the form of the resignation, but finally 
it got itself so worded that it went through. 
And indeed high time it was that I should be 
otf if my life was to mean anything. I did 
not feel like throwing it away without another 
trial. That night, when the responsibility was 
over, I was quite unnerved, and probably was 
not far from a collapse. 

It must be recollected that I was now not 
half a man physically ; that first malady still 
hounded me and dragged me down, and the 
recent arduous campaign had reduced me to 
a nervous wreck. I must confess to the belief 



AT THE FRONT. ^289 

that I could not have gotten through that last 
little military act of mine if a heaven-sent cor- 
dial had not been at the right moment handed 
to me in the unexpected gift of the planter's 
apple brandy. I was aware that for days I 
had been living and, as it were, balancing 
upon the edge of my nerves. In the morning 
I woke up much debilitated, indeed, but feel- 
ing myself a free man once more, with a new 
hope and a new chance. I had found some 
good friends in the regiment, but on the whole 
I parted from it without regret, and it doubt- 
less requited the feeling. 

Soon I struck into the road for Chattanoo- 
ga, and hired a darkey teamster to let me ride 
in his wagon. After a day's stay in that town, 
I passed over Lookout Mountain to Stevenson 
by the same sort of conveyance. At this last 
point, just across the river, the railroad 
picked me up and carried me to Nashville, and 
then to Louisville. I reached my home. Mount 
Gilead, in the last of September, not far from 
the day when I had set out for Camp Mans- 
field the year before. Thus I had rounded 
out about one year of military service. With 
the change of climate and a regular mode of 
life I began to recuperate, and soon felt my- 
self able to do a little studying. My library 
was still shelved upstairs quite as I left it ; the 
books looked down at me wistfully, as if beg- 

19 



290 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ging for a perusal and a deeper acquaintance ; 
lasting friends they had verily showed them- 
selves. Not infrequently had I thought of 
them, and, indeed, longed for them, while at 
the front. Already I felt that when my career 
got to running on its true legs, it would have 
much to do with books. So I had a glad re- 
union with my old comrades, all to myself, in 
my room during the pleasant autumnal days. 
I may say that I already felt the Destinies 
spinning my life-thread into a Writer of 
Books. 

But the time would not leave me alone in 
my quiet study. The bloody battle of Chicka- 
mauga had occurred, in which our town and 
county had many soldiers. At once a dreadful 
anxiety seized upon the community, especially 
upon the women, as it seemed to me, moved to 
sympathy by the almost distracted wives of 
the absent volunteers. All were profoundly 
stirred by what they knew, and perhaps still 
more by what they did not know. Our family 
saw the son of our next neighbor brought 
home in his coffin from the battlefield. Mean- 
time we were enduring at home our own tor- 
ture. What had become of my younger broth- 
er, who was known to have been in the pinch 
of the conflict ? After a week or so we heard 
that he had been dangerously wounded and 
taken prisoner. Some time later news came 



AT THE FRONT. 291 

that an exchange had been allowed in his case 
on account of the severity of his injuries — he 
had received two wounds by the same ball. 
From these he slowly recovered, and is still 
living. But in the anguish of that town I ex- 
perienced the sufferings of those who had to 
stay at home during the war— especially the 
wives, mothers and sisters. 

Meantime I had an opportunity to do some 
work at Cincinnati, whither I went from 
Mount Gilead. Here again study edged itself 
into my employment. Through the influence 
of a Spaniard, with whom I became acquaint- 
ed, my interest centered wholly upon the Ro- 
mance tongues — Spanish, Italian and French. 
I believe that I also dipped a little into Portu- 
guese. The city furnished opportunities for 
practicing all these languages with natives, 
whom I hunted up at one place or other, usu- 
ally in the humblest callings. Thus I passed 
the winter, recuperating at ease in well-shel- 
tered quarters, thinking that I might return 
to military service when the fine weather of 
spring set in, as the war was certainly the 
essential business of the time. 

My year of soldiership had been prolific of 
a great variety of employments. I had seen 
the war both at the rear and at the front, in 
many, perhaps in most, of its aspects. Some- 
how my military life would shape itself 



292 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

toward giving me a diversity of experiences, 
flinging me to the right and left, up and down, 
on this diity and on that, till I had heard and 
felt in my humble place nearly every note of 
its many-toned gamut. At present I was list- 
ening in quiet convalescence, but with intense 
sympathy, to all the varying sounds which 
arose from the gigantic struggle. Even after 
Gettysburg and Vicksburg, both sides seemed 
to put forth a greater effort. Grant had gone 
East, but had been unable to tip the dreadful 
balance, suspended seemingly from heaven, 
between the two armies. In the West, how- 
ever, the sun of the war had definitely risen 
and was rapidly circling eastward in a never- 
retreating march toward the close. 

While I was still wintering at Cincinnati 
and waiting on the future, I went into the 
Public Library one day and happened to 
glance at a St. Louis newspaper. In it I read 
a little advertisement to the following pur- 
port: ^'Wanted — A teacher of Greek and 
Latin, for three hours daily; compensation 
fifty dollars a month. ' ^ I had already longed 
to see St. Louis ; its history during the early 
part of the war had been unique, it appeared 
at my distance to be altogether different from 
any other city of the land, more foreign, more 
cosmopolitan, more un-American in its con- 
ception of freedom. Seemingly it was evolv- 



AT THE FRONT. 293 

ing after some new political pattern, which I 
wished to observe at first hand. A party 
somewhat like the European Eed Republicans 
had there risen to the surface and threatened 
for a while to re-enact the bloody deeds of 
the French Revolution. It was a Teutonic 
city of the radical type, while New York had 
become a Celtic city. At once I applied by let- 
ter for the position, and received a favorable 
response. With the next train I was whirl- 
ing toward St. Louis in early March, 1864, 
where I am now writing this book, having un- 
folded into this Writer of Books. 



CHAPTER FOURTH. 

AT ST. LOUIS. 

So it fell out that a little advertisement 
in a newspaper under the head of "Wants" 
became the main pivot of my whole life. 
That small bit of our modern papyrus leaf, 
stamped with words by the magic of movable 
types, was to me the voice of the God from 
above (say Pallas Athena) and whirled me 
around into a new career which has lasted 
to this day. A providential node in human 
existence we may well deem such an event, 
looking backward at it through the long vista 
of the transparent years which, like the 
lenses of a huge telescope, bring into light the 
true significance of the little speck of a re- 
mote occurrence. 

A few hours after my arrival on the first 
morning I went to the corner of Eighth and 
Cerre streets and entered a spacious building, 
(294) 



AT ST. LOUIS. 295 

which has now been swallowed up in the great 
railroad station. I did not know who the 
Christian Brothers were, had indeed never 
heard of them ; but when I entered the recep- 
tion room and saw the pictures on the walls, 
the crucifix, and the Popes, it struck me all 
at once that this must be a Catholic institu- 
tion, and I concluded that my journey would 
be fruitless. For I supposed that the first 
question would be: ^'Are you a Catholic? '^ 
I would have to say, ' ' No, sir. ' ' What other 
answer would follow but ^'Then we cannot 
employ you." As I sat there ruminating 
upon this new freak of life's kaleidoscope, a 
tall man in long black stole, like a woman's 
dress, and with skull-cap fitted closely to the 
back of his head, entered the door from the 
rear and walked straight up to me with a 
pleasant smile, which I much needed, and ex- 
tended his hand. This was the director of 
the institution, and I reached him the letter 
which had been sent to me by way of intro- 
duction. ''Glad to see you. We need a 
teacher of classics; instructors in that de- 
partment are hard to find. Come to-morrow 
morning." Not a word about religion. He 
hurried from the room and soon returned 
with a waiter bearing an armful of textbooks 
in Greek and Latin, which I was to teach. 
The highest was a class in Ovid, the rest 



296 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

quite elementary. Still not even a religious 
squint. I took the books and declared my 
readiness to begin at the appointed hour. 
Then he sat down on a chair near me and his 
features fell into a sober look. I thought to 
myself: "Now it is going to pop out." But 
he said about as follows: "We have a higher 
class in English Literature, and there is no- 
body to teach it; could you take itT' "Cer- 
tainly," I replied, "that is just the branch I 
would like to tackle." His smile returned 
while saying: "Good! your answer relieves 
us of some anxiety about that study." He 
at once sent out and ordered the servant to 
bring in to me the two large volumes of 
Chamber 's Cyclopedia of English Literature 
— a work which I had long wished to possess. 
"That is your textbook, take it along; start 
with it to-morrow" — whereat he withdrew. 
Still not a question about my religion, and of 
course I said nothing about his. 

Those two volumes on Literature which he 
gave to me I have kept — they are lying be- 
fore me as I write these words. They became 
intimate companions for the next two 
years, and had their influence upon the direc- 
tion of my life. The Latin and Greek which 
I taught meant little or nothing to me then, 
as I had long since transcended such a rudi- 
mentary stage of classical training. But that 



AT ST. LOUIS. 297 

very considerable body of English Litera- 
ture, arranged with copious -extracts in his- 
torical order, spun an important thread 
through my whole future. I came to know 
fairly well the total sweep of our literary 
heritage, with all its splendid names and 
works ; I added supplementary reading of my 
own, especially of poetry. And that is not 
all; the book acted creative^ upon me, and 
stimulated to composition, in particular to 
a poetical utterance of my inner life which 
was still far from being reposeful. I could 
find nearly every form of human expression 
in that comprehensive manual ; some of these 
forms appealed to me strongly and drove me 
to reproduction. The burden of the war and 
my paramount duty to its requirements still 
weighed upon me, and often made me miser- 
able and pressed my misery out of me into 
expression. I consoled myself, however, with 
doing what seemed to be sent to me, and took 
refuge in my studies, waiting for any turn 
elsewhither which might whirl into my path 
with compelling power. 

During this time I also kept active the 
bent toward the modern tongues which I had 
received at Cincinnati. I ate at French 
boarding houses, talked with Italian peanut 
sellers, roomed in the midst of the German 
quarter; there was one beer garden across, 



298 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the alley from me (the old Tivoli), another 
flourished just over the street before my win- 
dow (then called the Washington Garden). 
I tried to converse in all these languages, and 
read a few books in them all, seizing every 
opportunity I could find for practicing ear, 
eye and tongue in my linguistic zeal. While 
I did my school work in English, I became 
a stranger to it the moment I stepped outside 
of my class room ; I ran away from the sound 
of my native speech in a sort of alienation. 
I longed to be a polyglot, and several times 
I recollect of speaking four different lan- 
guages in the same company — I do not say 
how well. Once many years afterwards I 
did, or tried to do, the same trick at a cosmo- 
politan sociable when I was in Eome. But 
now a veritable polyglottic mania had seized 
me and raged with more or less violence for 
quite two years, which, therefore, I may call 
my polyglottic period. I caught up these 
languages rather easily, I think; my chief 
obstacle was to keep them from mixing indis- 
criminately together. Especially those beauti- 
ful daughters of the Latin — Italian, French, 
Spanish — had the mischievous caprice to slip 
into one another's shoes during conversation 
and speak a word, or termination, or letter, 
and then vanish. I kept trouncing my tongue 
for yielding to such little perverse pranks. 



AT ST. LOUIS. 299 

which seemed almost the work of petty spite 
among these linguistic maidens, each of which 
persisted in manifesting this slight touch of 
jealousy when too much attention was paid 
to one of her sisters. 

Naturally I tried to reach out a little into 
the literature of these Romance Languages, 
and into the world which they uttered. I rec- 
ollect of delving jDersistently into the literary 
masterpiece of modern Italy, the novel / Pro- 
messi Sposi of Manzoni. I did nothing with 
Dante at this time, but fell upon Petrarch, 
whose sentimental mood touched a responsive 
strain in me, and also imparted to me a liter- 
ary form, the sonnet, in which I indulged a 
good deal during this biennium. Of course 
I read many adaptations of the sonnet in 
English, some of which laid hold of me more 
strongly than Petrarch's. In French I took 
my first plunge into Victor Hugo's ocean, 
swimming out with some lyrical fragments 
and with his bizarre Notre Dame whizzing 
fantastically through my head. A genius, 
elemental and colossal surely; but I then 
heard his falsetto note, which some catch and 
some do not, making his message of very 
questionable truth and sanity. With all his 
Alpine magnitude and Titanic strength he 
has not written a Literary Bible for his race. 
Well, who has? Very few, indeed; but 
enough on this line. 



300 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

At the Christian Brothers I continued my 
work till the conclusion of the scholastic year, 
about the end of June (1864). Then came 
the exhibition, with examinations. A large 
tent was spread over the back yard, and for 
the best part of a week the school turned 
itself inside out to the public and showed 
what it had been doing. The priesthood was 
present in numbers; Father Eyan, I remem- 
ber, already distinguished for his pulpit elo- 
quence. What surprised me most was the 
wine room, to which a dark and devious pas- 
sage led, and in which the fraternity served 
a hospitable banquet to their select guests, 
consisting mainly of clergymen, though I was 
present. In such good and holy company I, 
of course, took my little dram, considering 
what Oberlin would say to such a scene, and 
to me, after an absence of barely two years. 

Scarcely had I emerged from the dark pas- 
sage into the well-lighted tent, where a stu- 
dent was delivering a declamation, when I 
heard the sharp crack of a musket. At once 
that large audience of 2,000 people and more 
sprang up in terror and made a rush for any 
avenue of escape, a few even trying to clam- 
ber over the high brick wall surrounding the 
yard. Some screams were heard and also 
anxious cries of women mingled with excited 
shouts of men. A dangerous panic was im- 



AT ST. LOUIS. 301 

minent, and the fright was intensified when a 
lieutenant of the guard at the liead of four 
or five bluecoats with fixed bayonets burst 
through the rear gate and rushed to a high 
platform, where a sentinel was pacing his 
regular beat within the yard. What was the 
matter? Next to the edifice of the Christian 
Brothers stood M'DowelPs Medical College, 
a building then used for a military prison. 
This sentinel pretended that he saw a pris- 
oner escaping on the roof and shot off his 
gun, whose report of course brought the of- 
ficer and soldiers on watch in a hurry. A 
glance showed that no such escape was pos- 
sible and that the whole thing was a soldier's 
mischievous prank. I ran toward the seeth- 
ing point, and remonstrated with the lieuten- 
ant, insisting that he should help us quiet the 
people — which he did to the best of his abil- 
ity. Soon all was calm again on the surface 
and the exercises proceeded to their close. 
A. St. Louis audience at that time was very 
sensitive to gunnery; Camp Jackson and the 
murderous fusillades in the streets during 
the 'early part of the war were still held in 
vivid remembrance, which would start a 
tremor of excitement at the shot of a pistol. 
I had all along supposed that my services 
would be dispensed with at the end of the 
scholastic year, since I had from the begin- 



302 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ning regarded my engagement as a tempo- 
rary makeshift for the school till its man- 
agers could find a teacher of their own faith. 
During the coming vacation they would have 
ample time to hunt up my successor. Imagine 
my surprise when the director came to me 
and wished to re-engage me for the next year. 
I had not given up my design of returning to 
the army, if the need of soldiers continued. 
As the war seemed then to be drawing to- 
ward a close I accepted the proposal of the 
director, in spite of certain twinges of con- 
science. But I could quit the position at any 
time if the military necessity arose. So I 
compromised with my patriotism and stayed 
in the rear. Some months later the long civil 
conflict did actually come to an end at Ap- 
pomattox, to be followed by a new oppressive 
burden, that of reconstruction. 

During the first months of my stay in St. 
Louis I took boarding at the Pension Fran- 
gaise of Pierre Guilloz on Walnut street, not 
far from the old cathedral. This I did chiefly 
for the purpose of practicing my tongue in 
French speech, not of indulging my palate in 
French cookery, which had too much garlic 
in it to suit my taste. There I soon took 
special notice of the striking figure of a man 
who daily entered the waiting room a little 
before dinner, sat down and read his news- 



AT 8T. LOUIS. 303 

paper till the bell struck, when he would 
make a springy dash for his meal. He had 
the quick, almost wild, eye of the hunter ; his 
body was very compactly and stoutly knit 
without a flabby spot of flesh in it — tall, ar- 
rowy and lithe. Plis face was unshaven, 
though sparse of beard, which seemed rather 
furzy on the cheeks but somewhat denser on 
chin and upper lip. But the most prominent 
feature was aii enormous nose,, somewhat 
hooked, which had the power of flattening 
and bulging, of curling and curveting and 
crooking in a variety of ways expressive of 
what was going on within him. It was sel- 
dom in repose while he was talking, but 
played around in response to his feelings, 
especially when excited — an index of his mo- 
bile subjectivity. The whole physical man 
rayed forth at every point two main quali- 
ties : agility and strength, which, it after- 
wards became evident, were not only cor- 
poreal, but also mental. 

That was my first glimpse of Henry C. 
Brockmeyer, a person with whom my life was 
destined to be longer and closer interwoven 
than with that of any other human being. 
He did not attract me now; indeed, I felt 
antipathetic to him rather. Still we had a 
single somewhat lengthy chat together. One 
evening after supper I happened to be talk- 



304 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ing with a pupil of the Christian Brothers 
who boarded at Guilloz's about some literary 
matter. I noticed Brockmeyer listening with 
interest, then approaching and finally edging 
into the conversation which he soon absorbed, 
I quizzing him a little now and then. He 
launched out upon Goethe's Faust, especially 
the Second Part, on which he said that he 
had given or was then giving a course of pri- 
vate talks. These he invited me to attend, 
should I wish. He also made some comments 
on Shakespeare's Hamlet, and cited from 
memory considerable passages of that play — 
a thing which I never heard him do after- 
wards ; in fact, he did not know Shakespeare 
as a whole. Finally he plunged into phil- 
osophy, and uttered with emphasis and even 
with affection the magic name of Hegel, of 
whom I had read at college the account in 
MorelPs History of Philosophy. I remember 
that I asked him a question of this sort : Is 
the principle of your philosophy subjective 
or objective? He jumped up suddenly and 
filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it and started 
to puffing; then holding his pipestem firmly 
in one corner of his mouth and articulating 
out of the other he ejaculated hissingly the 
words: ''Objective, of course." He shot 
through the door into the dark, and I never 
had another conversation with him at Guih 



AT ST. LOUIS. 305 

lioz', though I saw him repeatedly after- 
wards. He rather repelled m^e; certainly I 
did not reach for him then, as I did later, and 
did not accept his invitation. I looked upon 
him as a rude, self-taught specimen of the 
wild west, whose life-line had been and would 
continue to be very different from mine. Still 
I already felt the demonic in him, though not 
sympathetically. 

The truth is I was not ready for him. The 
war still lowered over the country, and over 
me and all my future ; that kept me unsettled, 
and unfit for any far outlook. Nor was I yet 
sufficiently liberated from the shackles of my 
old training to appreciate the unconventional 
freedom of the backwoods philosopher. I was 
still too formal to fraternize with the very 
informal Mr. Brockmeyer. If I understand 
his action, he reached out for me at that time 
from a certain feeling of kinship after hear- 
ing some remark of mine to the student ; then 
he dropped me as soon as he had tested my 
spiritual verdancy. Besides, I was then 
deeply interested in other studies: the acquis- 
ition of the Eomance tongues and the mas- 
tery of the general sweep of English Litera- 
ture. As already indicated, I was too intent 
upon both these very considerable subjects 
to relax my grip. So we did not gravitate 
toward each other, though sitting daily at 

20 



306 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the same table. I preferred to cliat a little 
bad French with some frowsy foreigner at 
my elbow to talking high philosophy with its 
supreme genius just before me. 

One evening this same spring it was when 
Mr. Brockmeyer brought as his guest a gen- 
tleman with whom I was later intimately as- 
sociated for the rest of a lifetime, the Hon. 
J. G. Woerner, afterwards Judge of the Pro- 
bate Court of St. Louis during many years. 
The two, I remember, sat in front of me at 
the long dining table, and were then excogi- 
tating some measures for stemming the ex- 
cessive and really dangerous radicalism of 
the dominant party of the city. Woerner 
was induced to run for Mayor quite against 
his wishes (as I have heard him say repeat- 
edly) and was beaten by Thomas. Both he 
and Brockmeyer were strong Union men, had 
been organizers and officers of the early 
home guards who held the State firm to the 
cause, and both voted for Abraham Lincoln 
that same year (1864). Both, too, were Ger- 
mans, and I have always thought that if their 
countrymen, who mostly leaned toward a 
violent, hot radicalism (European-born, I 
think), and who were very hostile to Lincoln, 
could have been brought to listen to their ad- 
vice, Missouri would not have taken refuge a 
few years later in what was practically a 



AT ST. LOUIS. 307 

Confederate control of the State, which 
lasted a quarter of a century. But enough 
of politics, which, I hold, constituted Brock- 
meyer's grand fatality, the eclipse of his 
genius. 

As I now look back at my own condition, I 
still had a year and more to serve in appren- 
ticeship to formal erudition, to transmitted 
knowledge, to the old self, before I could take 
the step to the new. That year I was engaged 
to teach at the Christian Brothers, being the 
second of my biennial stay there (1865-6). 
I knew little of the inner workings of the 
school — that was the special field of the order 
which I was not expected to pry into. All the 
more I felt the need of some associated work, 
and so was prepared to move into a new hori- 
zon which began to unfold to my eager vision. 

In the early fall of 1865 I happened to be 
boarding on Chouteau avenue and Four- 
teenth street, where I met a Dr. Hall, with 
whom I passed a casual word. He told me 
that he was a member of a philosophical club 
of a few members who assembled at a private 
house in the northern part of the city. On 
the following Sunday there was to be a meet- 
ing, which he invited me to attend as his 
guest. I accepted the invitation, and at the 
appointed time we rode in the horse car to 
Salisbury street, on which stood the house of 



308 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

our host, wlio, by the way, was none other 
than William Torrey Harris, then a young 
man of about thirty years. As we entered 
the front parlor, whose walls were tapestried 
with pictures and book cases, there sat, amid 
a group of fiYe or six other gentlemen, my 
whilom acquaintance, Mr. Brockmeyer, who 
extended his hand to me, still keeping his 
seat, and bade me welcome; On being intro- 
duced, he said: ^'Oh, yes; I recollect you 
well.'' 

The company had been listening to a trans- 
lation of HegePs History of Philosophy, by 
Mr. Harris, the reading of which continued 
when we had taken our seats. If a doubtful 
point arose in regard to the meaning of the 
German words, or of the thought, Harris al- 
ways referred it to Brockmeyer as the oracle, 
who would forcibly and undoubtingly deliver 
his response as one having authority. Some 
of the others might ask a question, but they 
seemed humble learners, mere tyros — a fact, 
by the way, which gave me courage and made 
me esteem myself on a par with them at least. 
I remember Harris well as he sat reading 
there through his gold-rimmed spectacles, yet 
with a kind of eyeless introverted look. Pale, 
nervously twitching, thin-cheeked and seem- 
ingly thin-blooded, with a sharp face and 
rather pointed nose, he appeared a needle 



AT ST. LOUIS. 309 

that could prick keenly and deeply into 
tilings. A soft silken coverlet of liair at that 
time spread over his temples, and his fea- 
tures were knit of exceedingly fine and deli- 
cate lines ; one-half of his face was very regu- 
lar and showed almost a sculpturesque per- 
fection, the other half was uneven in compar- 
ison and more craggy in outline. Very de- 
cided was his Yankee intonation of speech; 
every word and often every syllable of a 
word would bear the New England stamp in 
its very utterance, even to the gentle nasal 
shading. Harris was never able to get rid of 
this peculiar streak in his pronunciation, in 
his character and in his thinking ; no wonder 
that some years later he fled back to his sym- 
phonious New England out of the discordant 
West. 

The situation soon disclosed itself. Brock- 
meyer was emphatically the center, though 
not as little point, but as center so huge that 
he came nigh to being the circumference also. 
He was the Olympian Zeus of that little set 
of mortals, and it was soon evident that he 
had on hand a quiver full of thunderbolts, 
tipped and pronged with fire, by means of 
which he could pierce at will the fiends of 
darkness. I saw the slight flare of one or two 
little ones which he hurled from his seat, 
lapsing then into Jovian serenity. Undoubt- 



310 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

edly Harris was next to him of that group, 
yet very different ; indeed there was a strong 
contrast physically, mentally and, I may add, 
morally, between the two men. Harris showed 
himself the active worker of the philosoph- 
ical set, the eager propagandist, the fervent 
disciple; the most advanced pnpil he was 
assuredly, still a pupil, an industrious 
learner delving into the printed page of He- 
gel and sitting at the feet of the living Brock- 
meyer. I had not yet gotten even to his feet. 
I by no means understood the whole of 
what was read that afternoon, though it was 
an easy part of Hegel, being indeed largely 
historical. If it had been purely speculative, 
I surely would have been landed in Erebos. 
As it was, I caught many shreds of meaning 
in separate passages, but chiefly I saw in 
faint outline the vast sweep as well as the 
depth of the Hegelian system. The paper 
from which Harris read was the ''Introduc- 
tion to Hegel's History of Philosophy;'' that 
was verily my introduction to the philoso- 
pher and to real philosophy — probably the 
piece best adapted to my intelligence at that 
moment. Moreover, the whole was lit up 
at obscure points by Brockmeyer's lightning, 
which would flash a sudden illumination over 
the heights and into the depths of that to 
me new and misty world. I marveled even 



AT ST. L0VI8. 31;[ 

more at his poetic power than at his philo- 
sophic. The feeling came over me that here 
was something which I needed, and must pro- 
ceed at once to get. Brockmeyer became for 
me that day the interesting, all-dominating 
personality of my earthly existence. I saw 
that he was the man who knew philosophy 
as the supernal science; he called himself an 
Hegelian, bnt he could re-create Hegel, could 
even poetize the latter 's dry, colorless ab- 
stractions in a many-tinted display of meta- 
phorical scintillations. To be sure he was 
oracular in manner, high-throned, Olympian ; 
he was not going to play the disciple, he 
hardly seemed to care whether anybody got 
his message or not; he would tell it if asked 
when in the right mood; but to go forth 
preaching it in the streets, not he. He was 
divine indeed, but like Aristotle's God, mov- 
ens non mohts, which principle I have heard 
him cite with a smile of sympathy which 
seemed to be born of his innermost selfhood. 
In such lofty-peaked altitudes he dwelt, some- 
what by himself; this lay deepest in his char- 
acter, apparently his fated limit, which he 
would not and possibly could not transcend. 
Still the man longed for recognition, though 
he gave none, or very little; especially his 
contemporaries fell under his unsparing mal- 
ediction. Harris, on the contrary, was al- 



312 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ways eager to impart; indeed, I have seen 
him force some new insight of his, of which 
he was fnll, upon an nnwilling listener whom 
he had cornered and who could not in decency 
get away. This was one of his best traits and 
it gave him in the long run a personal in- 
fluence which was unique. Brockmeyer, then, 
lacked in the appreciating others, unless they 
were distant from him in time and space; 
from my point of view he was also deficient 
in imparting what was best of him to those 
around him. Still he could always be called 
out if taken in the right way and on the right 
topic. Too self-contained a demigod I have 
to think him, though of the Olympians. 

When the reading had ended and we were 
about to start homeward, Harris put into my 
hand one of HegePs volumes and asked me 
to begin a translation of it, as my first dis- 
cipline in philosophy. Brockmeyer, by the 
way, would never think of doing such a thing. 
In fact, he did not own at that time a set of 
Hegel, but borrowed what he wanted of Har- 
ris, who showed a touch of his pedagogical 
character by whipping me into line the first 
day. I took the work, which was the ' 'Philos- 
ophy of Nature. ' ' The next morning I began 
my -earliest grapple with the great German 
philosopher, and of course got thrown. Still 
I rose to my feet and went at him again and 



AT ST. LOUIS. 313 

again, goaded afresh by the new stimnlation. 
I now have before me those first attempts, 
which are dated October, 1865. Strange to 
say, I was whelmed headforemost by that 
book into tlie most abstrnse i)roblem of phi- 
losophy, the discussion of Space and Time, 
which Hegel places as the primal forms of 
Nature. Here I may mention a little coin- 
cidence: this very year (1909) I have in my 
own development as a Writer of Books gone 
back to the science of Nature, and have been 
compelled to deal once more with Space and 
Time in a new work (Cosmos and Diacos- 
mos). I look back at those struggles of forty- 
iive years ago with a sort of compassion for 
the tyro who has such a long journey before 
him in writing books, tirst one and then an- 
other and then still another, till finally, now 
he, an old man, has to write a book about his 
writing of books. Fortunately nobody is 
forced to read them, though the writer (so 
he thinks) could hardly help writing them, 
there being no other motive. 

On the way back to the center of the city, 
Brockmeyer was with us and I seized the op- 
portunity to sit alongside of him in the street 
car. I took occasion to make a little confes- 
sion as to why I had not accepted his invita- 
tion given some eighteen months before at 
Guilloz', I told him that I was then too deeply 



314 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

immersed in acquiring the modern tongues, 
but that I had already felt that I must strike 
deeper. He replied: ^'What you have been 
doing is well enough, but now you must en- 
deavor to master Thought" — he used also 
the term ' ' abstract Thought, ' ' or Philosophy. 
He invited me to visit him at his law office 
(then on Third between Pine and Olive), 
which I often did, as he was never troubled 
with too many clients. I was under his spell, 
and thought to myself: ^'Here is a man of 
genius, my first man of real genius, elemen- 
tal, original, different in kind from any per- 
son I have ever m'et.*" To be sure I had felt 
something of the same native energy in Pres- 
ident Finney and Blacksmith Jones at Ober- 
lin ; but they never overwhelmed me like this, 
never fully convinced me or coerced my bent 
with their Titanic fury, since I could resist 
them and even laugh at them. Brockmeyer 
was my greatest instance of the demonic in 
both its forms, the good and the bad, or the 
divine and the diabolic. He knew of this pe- 
culiar world-creating demiurge working 
within himself at his supreme moments; in- 
deed he used this very word (the demonic) to 
designate the power, taking it probably from 
Goethe, who employs it often, though it goes 
back to the old Greeks. Of course I heard it 
first from Brockmeyer, who applied it es- 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY. ^l^ 

pecially to Frank Blair and even to Benton, 
the two cliief heroes of Missouri's history. 

Several times at the gathering on Salis- 
bury street and also on the way home, a 
forthcoming organized Philosophical Society 
was mentioned. Brockmeyer spoke of the 
same repeatedly when I visited him at his 
office, where I was more likely to meet a 
gronp of philosophers than of litigants. A 
word of his on Hegel would fill me with light ; 
then I would go back to the dead types in 
my room and try to make them phosphoresce 
a little by persistent mental friction. This 
personal relation was to me the important 
matter; thus it went on for several months. 
At last the Philosophical Society came into 
being and got itself organized formally, with 
Constitution, by-laws and officers. Of this 
I shall speak first. 



The Philosophical Society. 

Sometime in January, 1866, several gentle- 
men came together and formed the St. Louis 
Philosophical Society, which has been often 
regarded as the chief intellectual focus of the 
city at that time. The truth is that it never 
represented the extent or the strength of our 
own movement. I was present at its various 
pre-natal stages up to the evening of birth. 



316 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

when its constitution was adopted and its 
officers chosen, of whom the pivotal ones were 
Brockmeyer as President and Harris as Sec- 
retary. To he snre we all had far-flashing 
dreams as to what our act then and there 
done might mean to the future. Under the 
date of February 1st I find the following item 
in a diary of mine kept at the time : ' ' A new 
organization has just been founded which 
may perpetuate the names of its members to 
remote generations, and may not: a Philo- 
sophical Society. Not our old Sunday after- 
noon gatherings, but something permanent. 
I was assigned a thesis : History of the Doc- 
trine of the Immortality of the Soul." I 
never wrote my thesis and it was never called 
for. Similar on the whole was the case with 
the other members. If anybody had com- 
posed an essay, it was read before the group 
and discussed. I recollect an announcement 
which Mr. Brockmeyer made at the first or 
second meeting: ^'I am writing a drama 
with an American content; when I have fin- 
ished it I would like to read it before this 
Society and hear your judgment. I may be 
permitted to add that Mr. Woerner also is 
contemplating a drama, and we hope to have 
him soon lay before us a specimen of it.'' 
Now what peculiarly roused my interest at 
that time and has kept the fact fresh in mem- 



THi PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY. ^yj 

ory, is that I, too, was excogitating a dramatic 
product ''with an American content.'' But 
I kept the matter a profound secret; I could 
not then have been hired to read it to that 
company with Brockmeyer sitting in the 
Presidential chair, as the supreme critical 
Minos judging the Lower Eegions of Letters 
and sending us poor scribbling sinners down 
to some black nethermost circle of the liter- 
ary Inferno. So three dramas had started 
to germinate in the bosom of that Philosophi- 
cal Society, each with "an American con- 
tent;" or, as the phrase runs to-day, each 
was to be ' ' the great American drama. ' ' Mr. 
Woerner, whom I barely knew by sight at 
that time, was present at the meeting, but 
made no engagement for his reading, and it 
never took place. 

In conversation I heard Mr. Brockmeyer 
repeatedly declare that the main object of 
the Society was to lead each member to give 
a rational account of his vocation. Let him, 
first of all, philosophize his practical life, and 
not wander off into the empty regions of 
mere speculation. The man, and especially 
the young man, must at the start find his true 
calling, the one best corresponding to his tal- 
ent and to his desire, then he should learn to 
think it, to make it the bearer of all, and of 
the All. In the latter effort the Philosophical 



318 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Society might be able to give him some help. 
This thouglit, particularly in the form here 
given, Mr. Brockmeyer undoubtedly derived 
from Goethe's ''Wilhelm Meister," with 
which book he lived a good deal during these 
days. He sent me to it, and I blazed my way 
through it both in English (Carlyle's trans- 
lation) and in German, reading it largely by 
his eyes, which was the only way I could get 
much out of it at this stage of my develop- 
ment. Still, let me do my best, there re- 
mained much in that novel morally repug- 
nant to me, and I would at times react 
against the whole business. I may add that 
these talks with Brockmeyer, usually at his 
office, and at the meetings still kept up in the 
house of Harris, meant far more to me than 
the Philosophical Society, which met for a 
while once a month, but never had an ener- 
getic life, being used really as a foil for some- 
thing else by its two leading officers. 

The fact is that Brockmeyer had another 
and deeper aim in founding the Philosophical 
Society than the one just mentioned. He in- 
tended it as a means for editing, printing and 
publishing his translation of HegePs larger 
Logic. His manuscript certainly needed re- 
vision in the matter of orthography, of syn- 
tax, of general style. To the last he could not 
spell English, though he could write it with 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY. ^19 

effect and often spoke it with exceeding force 
and dexterity. Undoubtedly both in writing 
and speaking his moods varied greatly, from 
dark confusion to dazzling illumination. Por- 
tions of his translation he gave to me and to 
Mr. C. F. Childs, then principal of the High 
School, and asked us to work them over and 
bring them to him at his office with our sug- 
gestions. So we three started and had sev- 
eral meetings; but Mr. Childs died in a few 
weeks after we were fairly under way, and 
the burden seemed to fall upon me alone, Mr. 
Harris having at that time a scheme of his 
own in the process of budding. To prepare 
for the press and to issue that fundamental 
work of thought, was indeed the chief ground 
of existence for the Philosophical Society — a 
huge but not impossible task, yet one which 
it never fulfilled. 

Now comes what I deem Brockmeyer's 
grand deflection from the right road of his 
genius — his gradual absorption into Mis- 
souri politics. He had indeed already had 
something of a political career during the 
war as representative from Warren County. 
In this same year (1866) he was a member 
of the city council and had become initiated 
into all the dark ways and cob-webbed cor- 
ners of ward politics. From the loftiest and 
sunniest peaks of philosophy he could drop 



320 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

down to playing buffoon to a scraggy pack 
of bummers in tlie beer-house. At the same 
time he showed that in all these descents 
there went with him the ray of his genius. 
Just as Shakespeare's sun shines on the old 
vagabond Jack Fal staff in the wild revels 
of Eastcheap, so the Eabelaisian humor of 
Brockmeyer would light up the follies, the 
vulgarities, the profanities of an electioneer- 
ing campaign. Now and then I took a trip 
with him in his journey through this nether- 
world, and I had to admire the range of his 
power, sweeping from the very empyrean far 
down into the depths of the Inferno, and 
there making all the devils dance to the tune 
of his wit and fancy. Also he had his story 
ready, sometimes fabling it on the spot to fit 
the occasion and the man; usually these 
stories, like some of Lincoln's, were ''very 
broad," whereat Pandemonium would roar 
in brazen-throated choruses — I piping my lit- 
tle tee-hee along with the rest. Well, he got 
their votes, and was chosen in a district 
strongly opposed to him politically; then he 
would withdraw from these haunts till the 
next election, keeping his fingers meanwhile 
on the leading-strings, and tickling his heel- 
ers when they might be getting a little too 
phlegmatic. 

In this sphere I formed the opinion that 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY. 32I 

Brockmeyer's supremacy was at its best 
when he had before him a crowd of his North- 
German coimtrymen ( Piatt-Dent sch) and ad- 
dressed them in their native dialect. I un- 
derstood it imperfectly and could not always 
catch even the drift of what he said; but I 
saw its effects in the uncontrolled laughter of 
his listeners, and once at least in their tears. 
I talked to him frequently about this sub- 
merged German tongue, banned largely 
(though not wholly) from the printed page 
and from polite German literature, but kept 
vigorously alive still in the mouths and 
hearts of millions of the Teutonic stock. He 
was emphatic in the praise of it as a simple, 
native, unsophisticated speech, rippling from 
its primal fountain in the folk- soul, though 
he recognized its limitation on the side of 
thought and reflection, for whose terms it had 
in case of necessity to borrow directly from 
its more completel}^ educated sister, the High- 
German. I heard him, in the last year of his 
life, boast that both Bismark and Moltke were 
Low-Germans (Platt-Deutsche) and spoke 
their mother's dialect by preference even in 
their latter days. I have not verified this as 
an historic fact, but I let it stand as indicat- 
ing a trait of Brockmeyer who felt or claimed 
a certain kinship of spirit with those greatest 
of recent Germans. He even thought himself 
21 



322 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

connected by blood, through his mother, with 
the Bismarck family, though he did not pre- 
tend to have any documentary proof. The 
truth is, Brockmeyer, like Lincoln, often 
brooded over his origin, over his parental 
descent, wondering how he, conscious of his 
genius, arose into being through such an or- 
dinary human channel. But his chief exulta- 
tion in this sphere of speech was that our 
English tongue in the farthest reaches of its 
genesis and utterance, streamed back to his 
beloved Low-German as its original fountain- 
head. Philologically this is a well-known 
fact. Here again his exultation was based 
on a kind of self-exaltation over the rest of 
us, inasmuch as he spoke the original, ele- 
mental English, and in a manner re-created 
our Anglo-Saxon speech from its primordial 
sources, giving it a fresh dip backward into 
the first birth-gushes of its existence. So he 
secretly thought, though the secret would 
sometimes break up to the surface in one of 
his volcanic upheavals. Eeally, he spoke Eng- 
lish with that primitive accent of his to the 
last, while his High-German was even more 
decidedly tinged with a Low- German modula- 
tion, and was less natural to him than Eng- 
lish. Now I am inclined to believe that there 
was something in this linguistic claim of 
Brockmeyer. At times in speech and conver- 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY. 323 

sation his words seemed to bubble up from 
the deepest well-head of their origin with a 
unique power and character. I know that I 
was roused to the point of studying Low- 
German to S'ee if I might get a peep into 
that primeval work-shop of English vocables. 
Of course this had to be done in my way, 
which was through books. I tried to read 
Fritz Eeuter's works, and I bought Glaus 
Groth's poems. I even went back to the Low- 
German original of Eeynard the Fox, dig- 
ging in it along with Goethe's classic trans- 
fusion of the same poem. I was the more 
stimulated by the fact that Brockmeyer had 
planned and started his redaction of this an- 
cient sample of Teutonic humor and craft in 
a work which he intended to call ''Eeynard 
in America," and which would portray in 
vulpine disguise all the crooks and crooked 
doings of Missouri politics. If I understood 
him aright, he was not only to be the singer 
but the hero of this foxy epic, the redoubtable 
Eeynard himself who always saw through the 
snares of his enemies, entrapping them final- 
ly in their own gin. But like the most of his 
literary schemes, the book never advancel be- 
yond some wild Titanic splashes of humor. 
It seems to have passed over into another and 
somewhat later project of a grotesque Gar- 
gantuan romance entitled ''Hans Grotsnuf 



/* 



324 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

(or Jack Greatsnout), of which he read me 
some effervescing fragments from a manu- 
script with some verbal additions which I 
thought still more scintillant and rockety. 
But this, too, remained a torso, or rather a 
brush heap of torsos, for these refractory 
jets somehow never could get themselves to- 
gether into an organic work. It must be con- 
fessed that Brockmeyer could not form, much 
as he appreciated the formative power of 
Goethe, for instance, and of the Greek clas- 
sics. I always felt a disappointment at his 
written word; it never did or could express 
adequately the man's genius. The moment 
he took to script and made his gigantesque 
conceptions flow into and out of a pen's point, 
there was an enormous shrinkage, as if they 
could not scrape through such a small vent 
without being squeezed almost to death. At 
any rate in diminutive type they appeared to 
lose a large share of their colossality, which 
was so overwhelming, to me at least, when 
the Titan was talking in his grandiose mood. 
He was aware of this collapse in his writing, 
and he usually upbraided the English lan- 
guage for it, as he too often blamed some- 
body or something for shortcomings which 
lay in himself. Really, however, that was a 
limit put upon him perchance by his own 
genius : it refused point-blank to make a petty 



/ 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY. 325 

goose-quill its medium of utterance ; it would 
not, probably could not go through, and so 
his ideas never ran out fully and freely into 
ink. Hence his writing was often a disillu- 
sion and omitted his best; I recollect that 
his "Letters on Faust'' when printed simply 
left out what seemed to m-e his deepest in- 
sight, as well as some of his most striking ut- 
terances which I heard from him in conversa- 
tion. 

It was, however, the year 1868 which quite 
estranged Brockmeyer from his philosophical 
pursuits and diverted him into political ambi- 
tions. His friend Frank Blair, was the Dem- 
ocratic vice-presidential candidate on the na- 
tional ticket of that year, and attracted him 
into a new field with vast outlooks. Of course 
the ticket Vv^as defeated and Brockmeyer did 
not obtain the fat office which he had some- 
what hoped for. Again he was thrown back 
upon his law practice, which was never op- 
pressive, and so he philosophized a little with 
us once more. But in 1870 there was another 
election, this time for the State legislature, 
to which he was chosen Senator. The plan 
of publishing the Logic had now lapsed com- 
pletely from his intention, almost from his 
memory. 

On the other hand, Harris, the strenuous 
secretary and ambitious student of Hegel, 



326 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

had liis own personal scheme for the Philo- 
sophical Society. That was to make it the 
means for working up his ' ' Journal of Spec- 
ulative Philosophy/' which he was already 
planning in 1866, and probably before, as he 
always had a journalistic strain in his mental 
constitution. I recollect the pivotal turn or 
perchance the psychologic moment when he 
started on the war-path. An article of his 
upon Herbert Spencer, of which he had a high 
opinion, had been rejected by the North- 
American Review^ whose -editor, Charles 
Eliot Norton, I believe, wrote to him a dis- 
paraging letter, in substance declaring the ar- 
ticle unfathomable, unreadable and especial- 
ly unliterary. To a group of us assembled 
at Brockmeyer's office, Harris read this let- 
ter with sarcastic comments which made us 
all laugh; then he jumped up, clenched his 
fist and brought it down defiantly upon the 
empty air, saying : ' ' Now I am going to start 
a Journal myself.'' This he did at once, the 
first number appeared in January, 1867, with 
the condemned article among others. I have 
always thought that Harris was a little heady 
in this matter ; he precipitated his publication 
upon us before we or even he, were quite 
ready to support it with matured contribu- 
tions. In my judgment Brockmeyer was the 
only man among us who had at that time any- 



THE PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY. 327 

tiling vital and enduring to say, and the ques- 
tion then and -ever afterwards in his case was, 
will he say it — formulate it with some degree 
of completeness? Still the Journal has vindi- 
cated its right of existence by more than 
twenty volumes of printed life, which have 
been read and noticed the world over. I saw 
it in the public libraries at Eome and Athens, 
where nothing else from St. Louis could be 
seen (except my vanishing eidolon) , and very 
little from America. It is indeed the most fa- 
mous and striking philosophical product of 
our movement, thanks to the tireless activity 
and daring of its editor. 

And yet, on looking back through the four 
decades and more since then, I have to think 
that the cause would have been better served 
if we — and this means especially Brockmeyer 
and Harris — had concentrated for two or 
three years our whole energies upon the pub- 
lication of the Logic, Hegel's greatest work 
and the sun of his entire system. It would 
have anchored our movement, which because 
of this capital deficiency has shown itself un- 
steady, aimless, and vanishing. Its planets 
were simply centrifugal and finally disap- 
peared in the depths of space, as there was 
no illuminating central body to call them back 
and hold them in their orbit. The catastrophe 
of the movement, therefore, was its failure to 



328 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

make accessible to English readers at the 
pivotal time the creative book of its system. 
Since then quite a large Hegelian literature 
has arisen in Anglo-Saxondom ; learned pro- 
fessors in Scotland and in England have writ- 
ten considerable works just on this central 
Logic, but have shied at its translation. So 
what is true of St. Louis in this matter is 
true of the rest of the English-speaking 
world. Brockmeyer abandoned his spiritual 
child ; Harris might have printed it as a con- 
nected whole in his Journal of Speculative 
Philosophy (he did print scattered parts of 
it), but for some reason he declined the basic 
task of the entire movement. So I have to 
judge both our leaders. As for me I was 
eager to do my share, which was necessarily 
very subordinate; I was at that time simply 
a green beginner, who would have welcomed 
such a training with the veterans. So it comes 
that Hegel's system in English has remained 
uncentered notwithstanding its considerable 
influence raying from its students at various 
points ; while the St. Louis Philosophical So- 
ciety, having balked at its supreme opportun- 
ity, became a very small factor in the move- 
ment of which it has been often portrayed as 
the focal influence as well as the chief mani- 
festation. Its main function, as I recall it 
was a formal one : in its name distinguished 



EMERSON AND ALCOTT IN ST. LOUIS. 329 

lecturers and visitors of a philosophic cast 
could be called upon at the hotel with im- 
posing ceremony, and be honored with an in 
vitation to give a talk before it during their 
stay in the city. A couple of instances may 
be given. 

II. 

Emekson and Alcott in St. Louis. 

One day during this same season Emerson 
came to town for the purjjose of giving a lec- 
ture. Word was passed around among the 
philosophers, four or five of whom grouped 
themselves into a little company, and went to 
the old Lindell Hotel, where the distinguished 
thinker was staying. He came into the par- 
lor and saluted us with that courteous reserve 
for which he is still so well remembered, and 
which seemed willing generously to play with 
us a little while, but always at arm's length. 
Harris was with us, but for some reason 
Brockmeyer was absent. 

From the start his attitude was urbanely 
critical. He knew of us as students of Hegel, 
and after the introductory formalities, he 
whipped out his rapier and began giving sly 
but very courtly digs at our Teutonic idol. 
One of his complaints was very characteris- 
tic. ''I cannot find," said he in substance, 
"any striking sentences in Hegel which I can 



330 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

take by themselves and quote. There is no 
period in him which rounds itself out into a 
detached thought, or pithy saying or remem- 
berable metaphor.'' I knew little of Emer- 
son, but I already felt the strong Emerson- 
ianism of this point of view. He continued: 
^'I always test an author by the number of 
single good things which I can catch up from 
his pages. When I fish in Hegel, I cannot get 
a bite ; in addition the labor is so hard in read- 
ing him, that I get a headache, ' ' whereat the 
philosophers smiled in chorus with the speak- 
er. It was on the -end of my tongue to say : 
^'Mr. Emerson, that may be the fault of the 
head, of the peculiar convolution of the 
brain'*'; but I kept silent. Harris took the 
word, but he rambled; he ran off into things 
remote and obscure, larded with his Hegelian 
nomenclature; he became as much of a 
Sphinx to his associates as he was to Mr. 
Emerson. Even as I write I remember my 
sigh for a flash of Brockmeyer into that dark- 
ness. A lull camCj when Mr. Emerson again 
started the discourse, evidently with a side 
squint at what he had just heard: ^'My pref- 
erence is that the hideous skeleton of philos- 
ophy be covered with beautiful living tissue ; 
I do not enjoy for my intellectual repast the 
dry bones of thought." Thus Mr. Emerson 
applied to us keeiily his own standard of writ- 



EMERSON AND ALCOTT IN ST. LOUIS. 33^ 

ing, seeking to Emersonize us that afternoon ; 
surely the implication was that we were on 
the wrong track, that it would be better for 
us to study Emerson than Hegel, though of 
course he did not say so. At this point I could 
not contain myself, though I was the young- 
est of the set and the greenest at the business. 
I broke in with youthful rashness: "Mr. 
Emerson, you seem to deny the right of 
philosophy as a science to have its own dis- 
tinctive terminology, as well as Mechanics or 
Chemistry. I judge that you regard the sole 
vehicle of thought as simply literary. But we 
hold that it must have its own well-defined 
terms, if it is ever to rise to its true scientific 
value. ' ' The beautiful stylist of New England 
— for such he is supremely — glanced at me 
with a condescending smile of courteous con- 
tempt, while I with fresh audacity continued : 
"It would seem impossible to organize philos- 
ophy into ^ system without its special nomen- 
clature. The value of Hegel is his vast organi- 
zation of thought; this is what we are seek- 
ing to appropriate, at least as a discipline. 
But in order to do so, we must learn to read 
his language, yea, learn to talk it also. Hegel 
has fine individual ideas, I think, scattered 
along on many a page, but these are only lit- 
tle stones which go to make the vast archi- 
tecture of his philosophic temple. In other 



332 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

words, Hegers system is what we are work- 
ing so hard to master — his system of thought 
as an ideal construction of the universe." I 
probably did not use these words, but the 
subject-matter I distinctly remember of en- 
forcing with some degree of ardor. To be 
sure I did not then know what an awful gob- 
lin to Mr. Emerson I had conjured up by that 
word system^ horror of horrors, not only to 
him, but to his kindred Transcendentalists, as 
I had occasion afterwards to find out at the 
Concord School of Philosophy. Indeed I think 
I may say that the New England mind as a 
whole, with its decided individualistic bent, 
does not take kindly to any systematic formu- 
lation of thinking. Certainly its supreme ex- 
cellence has lain in the other direction, as its 
great literary lights, headed by Emerson, 
strikingly indicate. During this little collo- 
quy Harris sat self-occupied, and sphinx-like, 
he gave no sign of approval or disapproval; 
he evidently did not wish to repel Mr. Emer- 
son by too strong a statement of our doctrine, 
especially on points of difference. The rest 
of our company, if I understood them, rather 
nodded assent to what I said, as it was only 
re-affirming what they must have often heard 
before. Harris was our single New Eng- 
ender, and had a deeper spiritual kinship 
with Emerson and with Concord than any 



EMERSON AND ALCOTT IN ST. LOUIS. 333 

of ITS. I have to think that he was already 
meditating a return to his native rocks when 
the circnmstances were ripe and his western 
exile was over. And this is what actually 
happened years later. It was perceptible 
that he was then making an unusual effort 
to win Mr. Emerson, to whom he became 
next neighbor in Concord not so very long 
afterwards. But the man I sighed for at 
that meeting was somebody of a very differ- 
ent order; I repeated to myself internally: 
^^0 for just ten minutes of Brockmeyer at 
his best.'' Mr. Emerson would have heard 
some of his much-desired pithy sentences 
white-hot in their creative glow and en- 
wrapped in a metaphorical tornado which 
would have whirled him off his feet. He 
might have appreciated it, but probably 
would not; for Mr. Emerson had little of the 
Titanic or of the Demonic in him, though he 
seemed once to recognize applaudingly some 
such quality in Walt Whitman, Mr. Harris 
invited Mr. Emerson to his home, where the 
philosophic host read to his distinguished 
guest some of his x^roductions, notably the 
one on Eaphael's Transfiguration (after- 
wards published in the Journal of Specula- 
tive Philosophy), to which the gentlemanly 
Transcendentalist gave some of his courteous 
applause. So Harris reported to us after- 
wards. 



334 ^ WRITER OF B00K8. 

And now it is time to say a little of the 
visit of the second Concord philosopher in 
St. Lonis during this year of 1866 — Mr. A. 
Bronson Alcott. He arrived early in Febru- 
ary, and the organization of the Philosophi- 
cal Society had been hurried up during the 
preceding month in order to be ready for his 
presence. One evening Mr. Harris brought 
him, somewhat to the surprise of us all, as 
he was not expected so soon. His appear- 
ance was notable: An old, tall, spare man 
with long gray hair dropping to his shoul- 
ders, with pale thin face, in which sat eyes 
turning their glances often upward — the 
first impression was that of reverence. There 
were many gatherings at which he gave hi-s 
talks. These showed his peculiar art-form, 
which he called the conversation, and of 
which he deemed himself if not the founder, 
at least the best representative. The sub- 
jects were manifold, some popular and some 
recondite; so the sessions might be consid- 
ered exoteric and esoteric. Before the Philo- 
sophic Society he read quite a batch of his 
more recent Orphic sayings, and let the rest 
of the philosophers guess what they meant. 
The first series of these mystic oracles had 
appeared in the old Dial, and had caused in 
Yankeeland no little head-scratching and 
some amusement. To this day they have 



EJJERSOX AXD ALCOTT IX .ST. LOUI-i. 335 

the peculiar power of calling forth flashes of 
Boston ^t. chiefly satirical. The old prophet 
would read his oracnJar message in a rather 
sepiilchi'al voice, as if it were issuing from 
the sacred cave of Trophoniiis himself: then 
he would throw down the written slip and 
cry out: •"TThat say jou to it. gentlemen?*' 
The Orphic utterance was often dark, tortu- 
ous and riddlesome. yet certainly with a con- 
tent of some kind. I was interested in seeing 
how diversely the same thought or jDerchance 
the same oracle woiflcl mirror itself in those 
dilferent minds. Some twenty men — only 
men were present — had gathered into a kind 
of circle before the new Orpheus, while di- 
rectly in front of him sat Brockmeyer. with 
alert, probably mischievous eyes, acting as 
chief interi^reter or perchance as hieroi3hant, 
though others would add their mite of a word. 
The conduct of the hierophant that evening 
had more mystery in it than even the Orphic 
sayings. To some of them he would give an 
easy, sober significance, which we all under- 
stood: btit others he seemed to turn inside 
out and then to shiver into smithereens. Fi- 
nally he picked up one which had just been 
read, and at the fiery totich of his dialectic, 
set off with his Mephistophelean chuckle, he 
simply exi:)loded it into mist with a sort of 
detonation, as if it were a soax3 bubble filled 



336 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

with explosive gas. Mr. Alcott, who had al- 
ready begun to suspect that his oracles were 
made to contradict themselves by some Hege- 
lian process which he did not understand, 
now grew testy and actually lost his temper, 
raising his voice to a loud raucous tone : 
^'Mr. Brockmeyer, you confound us by the 
multiplicity of your words and the profusion 
of your fancy.'' This was the first wholly 
intelligible saying of Orpheus that evening, 
and certainly the most impressive. Mr. 
Brockmeyer restrained himself and calmly 
replied, ''Perhaps I do." It was evident, 
however, that if it came to a serious intellec- 
tual tussle, the poor old man, thin in thews 
and in thoughts, would not have a philosophic 
grease-spot left on him. So the prophet and 
his hierophant had a little clash there in our 
presence. I must say that Brockmeyer 's con- 
duct was teaseful, yea provoking; I do not 
pretend to have the key of his mood, but he 
was probably in one of his fantastic Eabe- 
laisian spells during which no mortal could 
ever quite follow his curvetings. Still the en- 
raged prophet should have remembered that 
his unruly hierophant was President of the 
Philosophical Society through whose invita- 
tion and support he had come to the city. 
After this stirring interlude Mr. Harris, al- 
ways the reconciler in any fight but his own. 



EMERSON AND ALCOTT IN ST. LOUIS. 337 

stepped into the breach and took up the inter- 
pretation while the reading went on, though 
not with its pristine vigor. Still one of these 
later sayings caused a good deal of comment 
as well as surmise : It ran thus, as I recollect : 
^'It requires a Christ to interpret a Christ." 
Ten o'clock struck, and the discussion had 
zigzagged about in all sorts of twists and 
turns above and below the surface. I was 
quizzing with myself: Has the foxy Yankee 
prophet just coined this little oracle on 
Brockmeyer, or on Harris, or on all of us to- 
gether, with himself visible in the back- 
ground! I rose to my feet and gave expres- 
sion to the only remark I made during the 
evening: ''Gentlemen, I may be permitted 
to state my interpretation of this last saying: 
its hidden meaning is, in my judgment, that 
only an Alcott can rightly interpret an Al- 
cott. That being the case, we all had better 
now go home." At this rather un-Orphic 
deliverance little tidbits of tee-hees fluttered 
round the circle as the people sprang up and 
began to take their hats, while Orpheus him- 
self looked at me somewhat oracularly, I 
thought, and shut impatiently his map of 
oracles. 

As we passed out the door, a legal ac- 
quaintance of mine addressed me laughingly : 

You turned that whole business into a bloom- 

22 



338 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ing reductio ad absurdum, I disclaimed any 
such purpose, for I liad been not only amused 
but deeply profited by tlie session. Indeed, 
some of its effects I have borne with me 
through life. The short, snappy vers'e 
freighted with a meaning which has to be 
thought out, possibly to be dug out, has al- 
ways been a favorite of mine. The epigram, 
the rhymed proverb, the gnome, have the 
power of throwing the mind suddenly back 
upon itself and making it reflect. The Greek 
Anthology in general bears such a character. 
But the poet who developed this kind of verse 
most profoundly as well as most luxuriantly 
was Goethe, especially in what he calls his 
Tame Xenia. He, too, had the habit of read- 
ing his versicles to a group of listeners and 
getting them to guess at the inner meaning 
with a look of , mystification. Still I saw the. 
thing first exemplified that evening with dra- 
matic vividness by Alcott and Brockmeyer, 
the Orphic prophet and his hierophant. I 
started to imitating the performance and I 
am not done yet. The scene suggested to me 
a poetic form whose cultivation has given to 
me at least a great deal of delight, and, I 
would fain believe, to others. The Writer of 
Books has given way to this bent in two of 
his books, with fragments scattered else- 
where. The Epigrams, composed in the clas- 



EMERSON AND ALCOTT IN ST. LOUIS. 339 

sical manner during the trip to Rome and 
Hellas, as well as Johnny Appleseed^s 
Rhymes, bear the versified impress of brief 
cosmical snatches from an environing chaos, 
and were read originally to small knots of 
auditors, who were bidden to throw back at 
me in their own speech what the tricksy little 
gnome really meant. It was a kind of literary 
game of hide-and-seek, which those who did 
not enjoy need not play. It certainly called 
forth a great variety of mental gifts in those 
who with zeal set their brains to work in or- 
der to catch the elusive sprite lurking in the 
insignificant look of a quatrain or even of a 
distich. It was truly an old game, once in- 
deed very serious : that of interpreting aright 
the oracle. We may recollect that at one time 
the fate of Athens, yea, the fate of the Greek 
world and perchance of civilization itself, de- 
pended upon the correct interpretation of 
the Delphic oracle, which bade the Athenians, 
"Stick to your wooden walls." Some said 
that it referred to the Acropolis, but Themis- 
tocles declared that it meant ships, and per- 
suaded the whole Athenian people to descend 
with him into the true "wooden walls" of the 
sea, whereby they won the victory of Salamis 
and saved Europe at its first tender budding. 
Great was Themistocles as commander, but 
greater as interpreter of the oracle; yea, 



340 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

greater than tbe Delphic oracle itself, which 
was really transcended. In fact, during this 
lively interplay between the Concord prophet 
and the St. Louis hierophant I could not help 
thinking of my old friend Herodotus, the 
Father of History, whose book is everywhere 
interwrought with oracles and their interpre- 
tation. Nor did I fail afterwards to recall 
the antique quackery of the wandering or- 
acle-venders mentioned by critical Thucy- 
dides, the mountebanks of the age, who could 
fish out on the spot a very old prophecy of 
Orpheus or Musseus to suit the present cus- 
tomer. So this art-form, as I may call it, has 
persisted in a long evolution down to the pres- 
ent and probably has not yet ceased its Pro- 
tean transformations. 

Mr. Alcott at his best was possessed of an 
immediate power of poetic expression, a lyri- 
cal brightness which was captivating. But 
he lacked all organization of any subject, his 
talk was a string of detached observations, 
often luminous, often rather trivial. He re- 
mained nearly four weeks, but this long stay 
caused a distinct loss to his reputation, since 
it became the common remark that he re- 
peated himself and went backward after the 
first week. Harris sought to bolster him in 
every way, having doubtless the future Con- 
cord School already in view. I shall have to 



EMERSON AND ALCOTT IN ST. LOUIS. 34^ 

confess that I grew tired of him, and did not 
care to hear him any longer, unless Brock- 
meyer were present to put pulsing vitality 
and huge substance into the rather thin Yan- 
kee gruel and always getting thinner. Such 
a confession may well reveal my limitation, 
and it certainly bespeaks my tendency and 
perhaps my prejudices. Still we had one im- 
portant meeting, in which Mr. Alcott set 
forth his philosophic message, his esoteric 
world- view, to five or six of us who had come 
together for that special purpose. He gave 
quite a full exposition of his doctrine of the 
lapse of the soul, from the Primal One, dr op- 
ing in its descent the various orders of crea- 
tion down to matter. It was the Alcottian 
redaction of the Neo-Platonic theory of the 
universe. 

Brockmeyer was present and in his highest 
vein. He revealed a wholly different mood 
from that which possessed him during the 
Orphic prelection. His perversely fantastic, 
secretly upsetting Mephistophelian humor 
had quit him, or he had quit it, for the most 
earnest philosophical discussion of the deep- 
est truth which can engage the human mind. 
He was courteous and appreciative, but he 
showed the Alcottian lapse to be hardly more 
than a relapse to Oriental emanation, which 
had been long since transcended, while he put 



342 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

stress upon the opposite movement of philos- 
ophy, namely, Occidental evolution, with its 
principle of freedom. Mr. Alcott must have 
felt that he was in the hands of a giant, cer- 
tainly the rest of us did. Still there was no 
gigantic tyranny which sometimes swayed 
Mr. Brockmeyer, much to the injury of his 
idea and of his manner. I believe that I never 
saw him afterwards so thought-exalted, and 
his actions partook of his demonic agitation. 
I sat next to him, and I still recollect the 
gleams as well as the clouds which would at 
times dash over his face at some statement 
of the talker. A brief record of that meeting 
I have preserved in a notebook (dated Febru- 
ary, 1866), from which I shall take an ex- 
tract: ''Mr. Brockmeyer seemed impreg- 
nated with thought. He at first rocked in his 
chair; soon he rose and paced the room; he 
tore a piece of. . paper from the window ; 
played with his pencil; so restless a man I 
never saw before. He was all aglow with en- 
thusiasm. He had a fit of ecstacy if there 
ever was one. When he spoke it was a pure 
stream of the brightest thought. His enthu- 
siasm overflowed him like a torrent, over- 
powered him, carried him away" — and cer- 
tainly carried me along. When I went home 
that -evening, I was dimly aware of having 
had in my life an epoch-making experience. 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYER. 343 

Gradually the conviction kept closing round 
upon me tliat I must in some way go to school 
to Brockmeyer. He had something which I 
had not, but which satisfied the deepest need 
of my being. Can I get a drop of it, or per- 
chance, two drops! I must try. 

III. 

The Univeksity Beockmeyee. 

Such was the unique institution of learning 
which I began to excogitate some plan of en- 
tering. Unheard-of to this day it has re- 
mained, I imagine; the above caption is 
doubtless its first printed appearance. The 
sole university of the kind in the univers-e 
with a sole teacher, and I the sole pupil; so 
the fact must continue to all eternity. With- 
out question Mr. Brockmeyer put his impress 
strongly upon a number of minds which 
through contact had been made to feel his 
smiting originality; in particular Mr. Harris 
has generously acknowledged by word and 
writ his indebtedness. But my relation in 
the present instance was of a different sort. 
To catch some persistent phase or note of the 
genius, even in his chaotic irregularity, must 
be my daily occupation for months at least. 

Accordingly in the summer of 1866 my 
opportunity came to matriculate in the uni- 



344 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

versity Brockmeyer. The cnrriculum was 
very nnsettled in its details, though its gen- 
eral outline was known to me ; for the lesson 
there was not at stated hour or day or even 
week, still it would come out in time, often 
at the most unexpected moment. The in- 
structor's divinest mood would frequently 
spring from its lair on the least provocation ; 
then again it could not be coaxed to give even 
a peep. Seemingly he had little will-control 
over it. This peculiar course of mine lasted 
about one year. 

I quit teaching at the Christian Brothers 
when the term closed in June, 1866; with 
them I had been connected two years and a 
quarter. On the whole my relation to them 
had been very pleasant; I still keep in grate- 
ful memory their kindness, their tolerance, 
their appreciation. With some of them I 
formed ties of friendship; one member, a 
young man, consulted me about leaving the 
Order. He put me into a dilemma; my edu- 
cation and my conviction did not incline to 
the monastic life, but on the other hand I 
could not be guilty of an act of disloyalty to 
my generous employers. I declined giving 
any advice and referred him to his own con- 
science as arbiter in such a matter; I heard 
of him later pursuing a secular vocation in 
another city. In my own case, however, I 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYER. 345 

was aware that I was booked for departure. 
A new Director, a French Canadian, had 
taken charge of the school, and leaned to a 
less liberal policy toward non-Catholic teach- 
ers. I heard also of some troubles in the 
Order at this time, but I knew nothing except 
what rumor whispered. At any rate I did 
not care to stay longer in that position; other 
plans were pushing me more strongly else- 
whither. 

The place of Assistant-Principal in the 
High School had become vacant ; I was asked 
to take it, both by Superintendent Divoll and 
Principal Morgan. After some deliberation 
I declined; the real reason was I wished to 
devote myself to a course in the University 
Brockmeyer. Another scheme which danced 
now and then through my brain during these 
months was a trip abroad, with a possible 
stay at some European University. But this 
notion vanished more and more, as the new 
University of St. Louis clarified itself in my 
mind. I went back to the old Ohio home- 
stead in Mount Gilead for a visit with my 
•relatives; then I returned toward the end of 
August and started on my fresh career of 
study. 

One day I met Brockmeyer at a street cor- 
ner and asked him if he would permit me to 
read law with him in his office. He at once 



346 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

gave his consent. My main object was to be 
in his presence and to catch the overflow 
whenever the demon might get him a-going. 
As already indicated, these moods of his were 
very uncertain, and of very unequal value; 
som'ctimes they were wholly negative and dis- 
piriting. Still even these could often be 
turned into a positive view by a dexterous 
question. At first I was in earnest about the 
study of law ; from boyhood I had a leaning 
toward the legal profession, which stayed 
with me through college and through the war. 
I bought a copy of Blackstone and read with 
care the most of it ; into Kent 's Commentar- 
ies I delved somewhat, but a book on Plead- 
ing which I purchased I never seriously grap- 
pled with. Also I attended the courts, heard 
a good deal of legal talk, so that its nomen- 
clature grew familiar to me, and I became 
acquainted with a number of lawyers. In a 
way I got to know the general trend and 
character of the legal consciousness — a 
knowledge which some readers have re- 
marked in certain books of our Writer of 
Books. Brockmeyer's office was also a small 
political center; one could get there quite a 
sniff — often malodorous — of the politics of 
ward, city and State. Then it was the down- 
town loafing place of the philosophers, any 
one of whom might drop in during the day 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYER. 347 

and start a discussion which could involve 
the all-rounded 'totality of God, Nature, and 
Man. Last in line we may place the law, 
which, however, claimed to be the first. It 
was generally agreed that Brockmeyer in the 
strict sense was not much of a lawyer ; indeed 
he often showed an unprofessional contempt 
for legal practice, in which he did not shine 
as a success. He would not study his cases, 
he hated to hunt up precedents, which he 
branded as ''dirty dictionary work." Still 
into the conception of Right as the basis of 
institutions no man had a deeper insight. He 
could create a jurisprudence at first hand 
from its ideal sources on the spot; that was 
what he was inclined to do for his client in- 
stead of looking into the actual statute and 
the law reports, which might show something 
different. He knew what the law ought to be 
so well that he never took pains to find out 
what it really was ; so he was outstripped in 
his profession by inferior men, who were 
more sensible. But such was the variegated 
stream of people which poured through that 
office, making it certainly a unique university. 
When I wished to study seriously, I ran off to 
my private room. I may add, in the interest 
of the ever-lowering economic problem, that 
I made my living during this time by private 
tutoring. 



348 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

It soon became evident to me tliat the pur- 
suit of tlie law in my case was a mere pretext, 
of which I was not at first conscious. To be 
sure I intended from the start to weave into 
my legal studies the cultural and specially 
the philosophical discipline which Brock- 
meyer alone possessed for me ; but the latter 
discipline soon had supplanted the law, which 
more and more retired into the background. 
I was not long in finding out that Brockmeyer 
knew two supreme authors in their best books 
after the highest way, that is, creatively; he 
could re-create in his manner Hegel the phil- 
osopher and Goethe the poet, both of them re- 
cent Germans, who at that time, had been 
dead only a little more than thirty years, and 
who were not merely Teutonic but universal 
in character and work, and specially typical 
of the Nineteenth Century in their respective 
spheres. Accordingly these two authors be- 
gan to take my whole attention ; I bought the 
complete works of both, and concentrated 
upon them as my chief branch in the new Uni- 
versity, though I had frequently dipped into 
them before. Moreover I was then Teuton- 
izing strongly in my social relations ; I spoke 
German whenever I had the chance, joined 
German clubs, visited German people in their 
homes, played the flute with German ama- 
teurs, by no means omitting the German 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYER. 349 

young ladies or the beer house. In this mat- 
ter I would fain believe that the old Teutonic 
ancestral strain, long suppressed, broke up 
to the surface with the opportunity ; I simply 
gave myself up to a native bent which seemed 
to be working deep within me, till it had at 
least spent itself with the years. 

Of the University Brockmeyer I may be 
permitted to try to give a little explanation, 
since the expression will probably appear to 
some people as a mere caprice of my own. I 
must confess that the term is very recent, 
in fact it sprang up suddenly in the writing 
of this book, as the author was taking a long 
glance backward through more than forty 
years, and was trying to pick out the things 
which have stayed by him and evolved him 
into what he is — this Writer of Books. Brock- 
meyer himself never heard, I have reason to 
believe, of the foregoing title in his honor, or 
his educational epithet — it was born after he 
was dead. Now this University Brockmeyer 
resembles the old Greek ones, notably those 
founded by Plato and Aristotle, which sought 
to be universal and tested everything by uni- 
versality. The universe itself was formu- 
lated by one mind of surpassing genius, which 
could recreate it and organize it according 
to a fundamental principle. Plato's pupils, 
for example, thought the One and All after 



350 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the Platonic stamp; each of them passed 
through such an experience by means of 
philosophy. Any one mind that reaches 
unity has to obtain it at last through one 
mind, which indeed it may afterwards trans- 
cend. There is little doubt that Plato and 
Aristotle unfolded into, through, and out of 
Socrates. Such a philosophic school Brock- 
meyer had unconsciously after his fashion 
founded, especially for me ; he was my schol- 
arch, though neither he nor I knew it. The 
unique impress which he put upon every- 
thing when he rose to the height of his gift 
was that of universality. Thus the Univer- 
sity Brockmeyer was true to its name and 
origin, while the modern University is mov- 
ing just in the opposite direction, since its 
fundamental aim is to specialize rather than 
to universalize. That which fascinated me 
in Brockmeyer was his vast sweeps in the 
realm of thought. In a sentence he could 
throw a gleam through an entire science so 
that this flashed as a whole before my mind. 
For such an illumination I could wait till 
it came from him, and endure a good deal of 
rudeness which was often its finite accom- 
paniment in the scholarch. To be sure I, 
too, was at last to develop out of him, but I 
had first to develop into him, and appropriate 
his world-view, modeled after Hegel, ere I 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYEB. 2>bl 

could reacli my own. Indeed, the whole philo- 
sophic discipline as such had to be at last 
transcended, HegePs, Brockmeyer's and all 
the rest — but that is a theme which lies far, 
far ahead of our present subject, which deals 
with the scholarch and scholar of the Uni- 
versity Brockmeyer during the year 186G-7, 
and their varied eventualities. 

I have already stated that the two great 
authors whom Brockmeyer knew best, and 
with whom he lived in deepest sympathy, 
were Hegel and Goethe. That which capti- 
vated me in Hegel was his colossal power of 
organizing thought. I read this philosopher 
very diligently, but I could not have reached 
him except through the scholarch. Particu- 
larly that division of Absolute Mind into its 
three forms of utterance — Art, Religion, 
Philosophy — remained long to me a most 
precious spiritual treasure in its vast gener- 
alization, even if I had in later years to go 
beyond it, or rather to carry it beyond itself. 
In regard to Goethe also the scholarch gave 
me a prodigious lift to an altitude which I 
think I have at least tried to preserve during 
life. Faust stood out as his favorite poem 
and evidently portrayed to him the deepest 
lineatoents of his own soul. He had organ- 
ized it completely from beginning to end, 
though I think some portions of the Second 



352 -^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Part puzzled liim, even if he would never 
acknowledge it. But tlie mere thought of 
organizing a world-poem took hold of me 
with a grip which has never left me. In fact, 
this thought possessed me tyrannically for 
many years, and is what would not let me rest 
till I had organized and interpreted the great- 
est poems of the race called Literary Bibles. 
I had dipped into Homer, Dante, Shakes- 
peare and Go'ethe previously, but in the Uni- 
versity Brockmeyer I attained a pretty clear 
conception of what I must do with them. I 
do not say that I then had fully planned what 
I afterwards carried out in this line of work 
— that took many years which I could not 
forecast ; still the germinal idea budded at the 
present time. 

I ought to say, however, that even in the 
organization of Faust, further study led me 
to change radically Brockmeyer 's whole 
schem'e (it can be seen printed in the early 
numbers of the Journal of Speculative Phil- 
osophy). This does not alter the fact that 
I derived the original idea from him. Un- 
doubtedly he had found this idea of a philo- 
sophic interpretation of literature in Hegel, 
but he had re-created it and stamped it with 
his own genius. I have to think that I could 
never have gotten it myself from Hegel at 
first hand; the scholarch was the mediator in 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYER. 



353 



this as in so many other cases. Here we may 
see the chief function of Brockmeyer in our 
entire philosophic movement which has made 
itself felt in many places of the West besides 
St. Louis : he was the medium through which 
came to us the chief philosopher and the chief 
poet of Germany. Mr. Harris, the most ac- 
tive propagator and the best known member 
of the philosophic group, would have never 
obtained his insight into Hegel and into phil- 
osophy generally except through Brockmey- 
er 's mediation. This he often acknowledged 
in his earlier years. And so it was with the 
rest of us. I think that the case may be even 
more broadly stated: the German Renais- 
sance of the last century, the greatest spirit- 
ual movement of recent Europe was tapped 
at its fountain-head in its supreme poet and 
in its supreme philosopher just by our Brock- 
meyer and was made to flow in a lively stream 
at our St. Louis as center, where it impreg- 
nated strongly an American element. I am 
well aware that many educated Germans 
among us will question this view, and point 
to other famous men of their nationality as 
the true apostles of the German evangel. But 
in this case German culture remained Ger- 
man, both in spirit and in speech, fusing very 
slightly with the native element. On the 
other hand, Brockmeyer sought to American- 



23 



354 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ize his message, making it talk English and 
invoking it to explain the institutions of the 
country. Nearly all his associates were born 
Americans, though seeking to deepen them- 
selves through him into Grerman thought, and 
to raise the hidden treasure into the sunlight 
of their own language and land. He went 
back to Germany from America; Schurz, 
Hecker and others moved the other way. 

The Civil War was just over, a great new 
epoch of History had been enacted — what 
was the significance of it all? Brockmeyer 
had passed through it in his ripe manhood as- 
military officer and as legislator, supporting 
the Union cause in a Border State where 
each side of the mighty conflict manifested 
itself with violence. Very instructive was 
the comment of the scholar ch, when he kept 
his positive mood ; but only too often he would 
give way to his negative demon, and proceed 
to such a point of hate and bitterness that he 
would become simply self-negative, he would 
undo himself in his fury. The dominant party 
had begun its work of reconstructing the 
South, which called forth in him not only 
present wrath but the darkest, most pessi- 
mistic prophecies concerning the future of 
the nation, against which I sometimes lodged 
my protest, though I, too, did not at all like 
the method of Southern reconstruction. Well, 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYER. 355 

nobody likes it now, though we all, North as 
well as South, had to go through it as a part 
of our fiery national discipline. Still, even 
in these volcanic outbursts Brockmeyer 
would show himself an institutional man; 
his anger was kindled really against those 
whom he deemed in their success to be the in- 
sidious destroyers of American institutions. 
Indeed, I have now to think that his institu- 
tionalism was somewhat one-sided; but so 
much the greater was the lesson for me at 
that time. The fact is nothing else stirred, 
stimulated, yea, shocked me quite so deeply 
as this strain in Brockmeyer 's doctrine and 
character, bursting up as it frequently did 
into Titanic and even blasphemous utterance. 
For I, with my moral consciousness so 
strongly developed by my Oberlin experi- 
ence, had as yet no place in my thought for 
institutions, upon which my scholarch put 
such overwhelming stress. That was still my 
condition when I entered the University 
Brockmeyer. I had indeed been in the war 
and made my little fight for Union and Con- 
stitution ; but this chief stake of the desperate 
struggle I did not clearly see, though Lincoln 
had reiterated it often enough. To me the 
conflict still meant mainly the extinction of 
slavery — the moral side, which Brockmeyer, 
though not a supporter of slavery in itself. 



356 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

strongly discounted. So here stood my schol- 
arcli, to whom I had already become attached 
by ties not to be severed in this life, as my 
opposite, as my antitype, so to speak; for him 
the institutional was all, the moral quite 
nothing. The jar got inside of me and shook 
me up with an inner earthquake, both settling 
and unsettling. It is true that I had felt 
something of the same jolt before at Oberlin, 
and more decidedly at Camp Mansfield, when 
I, as officer of an institution, had to deal with 
the refractory conscience of the Quaker con- 
script ; but those were slight, transient trem- 
ors, even if premonitory, compared to this 
soul-rocking, persistent upheaval. I seemed 
to myself for a time half dazed by the shock 
which meant, indeed, a new kind of birth: I 
was being re-born consciously institutional 
with Brockmeyer as my Socratic midwife. I 
deem it my supreme lesson in his University, 
since it runs through all art and literature, as 
well as the social order. Still I declined to 
follow him to his extreme. I could not help 
thinking that the moral was also valid in its 
sphere, as well as the institutional ; both sides 
must somehow be preserved integral in the 
spiritual heritage of man, though each was 
at this time warring with the other in my 
brain. Yet just through this inner war I was 
coming to a consciousness of what our outer 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYER. 357 

Civil War meant, wliicli showed on so many 
sides, both in men and in events, this deepest 
conflict of the age between the moral and the 
institutional. What influence this lesson, first 
fully gotten in the University Brockmeyer, 
has had upon the Writer of Books, is shown 
in quite a line of books strung along through 
life from that time down to the present (the 
last one up to date being the Life of Abraham 
Lincoln, 1908). 

I have to think that Hegel also, the main 
teacher of my teacher, shows a deficiency in 
his treatment of the moral spirit. In his 
Philosophy of Eight he has a section called 
Morality, which has undoubtedly many 
strong points. Still it is weak and insufficient 
compared with the final section, in which he 
treats of institutions (Family, Society and 
State), and from which Brockmeyer drew his 
first knowledge and inspiration concerning 
this subject, transforming it and applying it 
anew after his manner. I once heard him 
say: ''I would cut that Morality out of 
Hegel's book, it does not belong there; it is 
inconsistent with the rest.'' This statement 
really indicates the result of Brockmeyer 's 
own inner conflict between the moral and in- 
stitutional; the former he eliminated, and 
this elimination showed itself not only in his 
thought, but in his life and speech. Indeed he 



358 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

rather loved to shock the moral consciousness 
of people with whom he was brought into con- 
tact, much to the ill report of him abroad. 
Not infrequently he gave me a heavy dose, 
but I endured this and other outbreaks of 
willfulness for the sake of the University, 
which I knew I could find nowhere else on 
this terraqueous globe. In the foregoing 
negative attitude of his toward the moral I 
did not follow him, theoretically or practi- 
cally; but his grand positive insight into the 
institutional world was what I clutched after 
with every energy of my being as the anchor 
of salvation. I may add that many years 
afterwards I saw the necessity of recon- 
structing the whole sphere of the Will, of 
which these two elements (the moral and the 
institutional) are two different stages, and 
of reconciling them in a higher process. 
Such an act, however, carried me not only out 
of Brockmeyer, but also out of Hegel, and in- 
sisted upon recording itself in a book. Still 
to these original sources in Brockmeyer and 
Hegel the Writer of Books wishes gratefully 
and fervently to acknowledge his indebted- 
ness. 

Now, during this same year (1866) the mem- 
tioned conflict raged in me so strongly that I 
was driven to its literary utterance in order 
to let it out of me a little. It was for me 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYER. 359 

a genuine collision, a struggle between two 
opposing principles, each of which had its 
validity. Thus it was specially adapted for 
artistic treatment, which, in its true mani- 
festation, demands just such themes. This 
thought I had heard Brockmeyer ray out with 
many a dazzling coruscation ; I had also read 
it and pondered it in the cold Gothic type of 
Hegel's Aesthetic, Why should I not realize 
that which was so desperately seething 
within me? Moreover, I soon found that it 
was not simply my personal collision or a 
mere subjective hurly-burly all to myself, 
but that it was the conflict of the nation also, 
especially during the Civil War, mirroring 
itself in me as one little atom or monad of the 
great Whole. At Oberlin I had seen only the 
one side, but now I had gotten the other side, 
and the two sides started to clashing within 
me till I ejected them into a dramatic poem, 
called Clarence, the first-born of my Muse, 
except some short lyrics. 

These lyrics, I may add, never ceased to 
bubble up during this whole period, both dur- 
ing my stay at the Christian Brothers and 
during the year of the University Brock- 
meyer, thus giving a continuous i^oetical 
undertone to my being needful of harmonies. 
Like so many other poetic temperaments, 
great and small, from Shakespeare down to 



360 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Nat Hewstick and myself,_J_took refuge in, 
sonneteering, and even went back to tlie old 
Italian Petrarch, wlio in this poetic form of 
the sonnet has struck such a lasting, even if 
tiny, musical note. In this way I threw oif 
the melodious moodiness and the morbidness 
of the naturally brooding adolescent, who 
hardly knows what is the matter with him- 
self. I never read these productions to any- 
body except to myself, who, I shall have to 
confess, highly enjoyed them while the mood 
lasted. Even the drama, which kept spinning 
itself out for two years, was during this in- 
cubation secreted tongueless in my heart, 
which was certainly then enamoured of it, 
as the firstling of a new ainbition. A number 
of these lyric effusions I have now printed 
for the first time as directly expressive of a 
stage in the early poetic evolution of this 
Writer of Books, half hiding them away in 
small type and in a back closet of the present 
narrative, where the reader, if he chooses, 
can fish them out (Appendix III.). 

In this same to me eventful year a new and 
stronger emotion — the strongest of our 
earthly existence when at its highest and 
purest intensity — began intertwining itself 
in the many-threaded skein of the quickening 
days. This emotion also became very impor- 
tunate for utterance in poetical effusions, 



THE UNIVERSITY BROCKMEYER. ggj^ 

which failed not to slip nnder the eye of the 
only one for whom they were intended. So 
my Petrarchan Muse had also its Lanra, and 
kept np a ceaseless throbbing undertow hid- 
den beneath the upper sun-beshone Univer- 
sity Brockmeyer. But that soul-piercing 
scholarch suspected by my frequent lapses 
into wool-gathering that something was the 
matter beside philosophy, and once gave me 
a dig which made my cheeks tingle with con- 
scious blood, in something like the following 
refrain: ''Snider is far away courting to- 
day.'' Many were the ups and downs, high 
hopes and little catastrophies, life's magic 
mixture of fate and moonshine — for a de- 
tailed account of which look into the novel at 
your elbow. Suffice it to say that in August, 
1867, I was married to Miss Mary Krug, to 
whom I had become deeply and permanently 
attached. She was a woman of culture, born 
in America of German parentage, and spoke 
both English and German without accent. 
Her deepest nature was musical, being en- 
dowed specially with the gift of soulful song, 
into which she poured her truly harmonious 
life. She also played the piano, which, accom- 
panied by my flute, formed a kind of tuneful 
bower in which we both wandered and finally 
lost ourselves, never being able to get out 
again separately. Also a touch of the old 



362 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

German ancestry may have asserted itself 
in this exceedingly cong'enial attachment, cap- 
ping off my Teutonizing tendency of that 
time with love. Moreover, my institutional 
philosophy I now turned into a practical 
reality by entering a new institution, the 
Family, which at once enforced its demands 
upon me in the way of more bread and butter 
and yet more. But with this last act of mine 
the University Brockmeyer comes to a defin- 
ite close, which can be deemed the usual 
happy conclusion of the drama in marriage. 
I may add that the scholarch himself had in 
the meantime taken a wife, his second one. 
Thus the Love God had actually stormed our 
idyllic Academe of philosophic celibates (as 
he does ideally in Shakespeare's Love's La- 
bor Lost) and had remanded its inmates to 
their duties of domestic life. Moreover, the 
Law, already shamefully neglected, was now 
wholly dropped for another vocation. I ac- 
cepted the position of Assistant in the High 
School (not that of Assistant-Principal, 
which was the higher offer of the previous 
year) and with a salary of 1700 dollars per 
annum began a new stage of this earthly ex- 
perience which has also left deep traces upon 
the Writer of Books, 



BROCKMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 350 

IV. 

Bkockmeyee's Spiritual Genesis. 

If I have succeeded in stimulating my 
reader to a little frenzy of interest by the 
foregoing account, he will already have asked : 
How did this man, Brockmeyer, get to be? 
Can you give us a brief outline of his spir- 
itual history? I have often asked myself the 
same question ; the first year of my acquaint- 
ance with him I began to propound such a 
problem to myself, and I continued propound- 
ing it through my whole life, and here I pro- 
pound it again. It was indeed the most fasci- 
nating study of character that ever occupied 
my brain; I tried for more than forty years 
to track him through all his complexities, sin- 
uosities, yea perversities, in their living mani- 
festation before me. He could be a Faust and 
a Mephistopheles both in one, or each sepa- 
rately with something else thrown in. 
Go'ethe's great poem was his favorite which 
he interpreted and even brought himself to 
write upon ; it was doubtless at one period of 
his life the purest reflection of his own career, 
inner and perchance outer. The English 
dramatist's Hamlet, doubtless the most com- 
plicated, profoundest, as well as most com- 
prehensive of his characters, seemed and still 



364 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

seems to me simplicity itself beside tlie in- 
tricacies and involutions of Brockmeyer's 
character. Many took the latter 's gro- 
tesquery and butf oonry as tlie real man ; that 
was, indeed, his humorous outside, his butfer 
against the world, wherein he resembled Lin- 
coln. It may be stated here that the present 
writer of books has repeatedly tackled him 
in writ, seeking to draw at least two full- 
length images of the man, with many shreds 
of him flitting here and there in other por- 
traitures. Not only in my own case, but in 
that of others in whose souls he became once 
lodged, he rose up the all-dominating human 
personality. 

Mr. Brockmeyer was born in Northern Ger- 
many in 1826 (he was evidently uncertain 
about the year of his birth; sometimes he 
gave it as 1827, or even as 1828; he seems, 
however, in later life to have settled upon 
1826). He took delight in calling himself a 
Prussian Low-German (Platt-Deutscher) ; 
still he ran away from home and country, 
boarded a steamer at Bremen and came to 
America, while a mere stripling. He gave as 
a reason of his flight that his mother, who was 
a pietist, caught up one day and burned his 
first book — a volume of Goethe's Lyrical 
Poems — ''which I had bought with my own 
hard-earned and long-saved pennies." A lu- 



BROCKMEYER'8 SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 355 

gitive from liis mother — that certainly 
touches an nntender chord. But I have heard 
him give some other reasons for his secret de- 
parture from home ; at any rate, here was his 
first separation — his flight from the old world 
to the new. He, while still a youth, must have 
tramped a good deal over the United States 
in the early 40s; he said in conversation at 
different times that he had worked in New 
York City, Philadelphia, Dayton (Ohio), Fort 
Wayne (Indiana). At last, however, he as a 
young man turned Southward, and reached 
Mississippi, starting a tannery, which busi- 
ness he knew from his German home, in some 
place of that State. Here he remained sev- 
eral years, gaining his experience of slavery, 
and amassing a little fortune. He next con- 
cluded to go to college, feeling himself ig- 
norant of human culture, and probably hear- 
ing the whispers of his genius. The result 
was that he went to Georgetown, Kentucky, 
where was a well-known institution of learn- 
ing, and started to take a classical course. 
Here a deeper aspiration seized him; he re- 
solved to go to an Eastern school — Brown 
University — since in all Western colleges 
there was and probably still is a good deal 
of talk about the superiority of the salt-water 
institutions. Another reason he gave for his 
departure : he had a disagreement with the 



366 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

President of Georgetown College about the 
evidences of Christianity — which act of his 
was taken as a defiance of authority, and even 
of religion. It is manifest that Brockmeyer 
did not bring his education from Germany; 
what he learned came through American 
channels; we shall find that when he went 
back to German culture and philosophy he 
started from this country, yea, remained in 
this country during the process. Precise 
years cannot be given for these various moves 
in the career of Mr. Brockmeyer ; in my time 
he did not accurately remember them himself ; 
he was never good at keeping dates in his 
head, or in his conduct, even those which most 
intimately concerned him. In a general way, 
however, it may be affirmed that he reached 
Brown University, Ehode Island, then under 
its famous President, Francis Wayland, some 
time during the early 50s. I recollect that he 
once spoke of attacking before the whole class 
Wayland 's argument for the Higher Law. 
Thus, he must have come under the direct in- 
struction of the book-writing President, of 
whom very few traces ever appeared after- 
ward in the thought or word of the pupil. He 
evidently shuffled off what he was taught by 
the professors in the college as so much dead 
material of the dead Past, while outside of 
these erudite stores he began to drink of the 



BROCKMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 357 

exliilarating stream of the Present, wliicli 
transformed his life. 

Accordingl}^, I have to believe, though he 
never acknowledged it, that the great and 
lasting fact of Brockmeyer's stay at Brown 
University was that he greedily appropriated, 
with a genuine hunger of the soul, the New 
England Transcendental Movement. He was 
just ready for that Oceanic swell, and he 
plunged in headforemost and overhead. Hav- 
ing gotten the idea into that persistent Low- 
Germ^an brain of his, he carried it out to a 
completeness, yea, to an extremity which 
made all the Yankee attempts, such as Brook 
Farm, or Fruitlands, or Walden, seem pale 
and diminutive compared to the one grand 
Titanic outburst. For Brockmeyer's flight 
from the social order to the backwoods of Mis- 
souri, then the distant West, was a far more 
colossal stride out of civilization than any of 
those rather timid tiny steps taken by a few 
Transcendentalists in New England. Still 
he obtained his primal impact from that 
movement during this time, but he carried it 
out to its bitter logical result, and, as far as 
I am aware, is the only one who did so. 

He told me that his first questionings were 
roused by the perusal of certain written 
products of that period. He did not say what 
these were specially; in fact, he was inclined 



368 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

to be reticent in my days upon this whole sub- 
ject. There can be little donbt, however, that 
he took deep quaffs from transcendental lit- 
erature, which was then at its highest gush all 
over New England, and was particularly cul- 
tivated by susceptible college students. Once, 
and once only, in a moment of unusual con- 
fidence, he confessed that a very gifted 
woman, whom he knew personally, laid her 
spell upon him, which helped him to his bent 
and left its mark for life ; this was Mrs. Sarah 
Whitman, then some fifty years old, poetess, 
idealist and spiritualist, famed not only for 
her own literary excellence, but also as one 
of the lady-loves of Edgar Allan Po^e, whom 
she has celebrated both in verse and prose 
(Brockmeyer also declared that she was the 
original of Foe^s Annabel Lee — ^probably a 
guess on his part). Another distinguished 
Transcendentalist whom he seems to have 
known somewhat was Dr. Frederick H. 
Hedge, then a Unitarian clergyman at Provi- 
dence (during the years 1850-54, according to 
his biography). But the chief influence of 
Dr. Hedge came through his book. Prose 
Writers of Germany, which Brockmeyer must 
have read with attention, as I have heard him 
say repeatedly that he drew thence his first 
faint conception of Hegel's philosophy — very 
faint it must have been, for the book contains 



BROCKMEYER'8 ^SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 3^9 

but little that is pivotal in the great German 
thinker. Still, I am inclined to believe that 
Brockmeyer drank from this same book a 
certain kind of knowledge to which he would 
never confess in my hearing ; it gave him his 
first acquaintance with the literature, and 
specially with the romantic literature of his 
fatherland. Hedge had been a student in 
Germany and had done his part toward bring- 
ing over to America German Eomanticism, 
which was the original European fountain- 
head of New England Transcendentalism. 
Philosophically, the Eomantic movement 
reaches back to Kant and Fichte, but the phi- 
losopher of Romanticism is usually held to be 
Schelling — so he is peculiarly designated by 
Haym, its historian. Its chief literary ex- 
ponents were Tieck and the Schlegels, who 
claimed Goethe as its supreme novelist and 
poet, though he declined the honor and pre- 
ferred to be considered a Classicist, instead 
of a Romanticist. Hegel passed into, through, 
and out of the whole movement of Romanti- 
cism, which evolution of himself he has in- 
dicated in his Phenomenology (for a fuller 
accoimt of this work see our Modern Eu- 
ropean PMlosopliij under the discussion of 
Hegel). Thus, it is to be observed that the 
Hegelian Philosophy is a complete transcend- 
ing of the Romantic movement, and therewith 



24 



370 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

of all Transcendentalism. This pivotal fact 
we are to remember wlien we come to weigh 
the effect of Brockm^eyer's later study of He- 
gel : it lifted him spiritually out of the Tran- 
scendental movement; into which he was 
dipped so profoundly at Brown University, 
and thus started an entirely new stage of his 
development. 

But so far we have not yet come, though on 
the way thither. It should be here stated that 
this German Eomanticism streamed into New 
England, which was ready for it, through 
various channels. Most prominent, perhaps, 
was the influence of Carlyle, who tapped that 
same movement in Germany, and was brought 
across the Ocean by his friend Emerson, who 
may be deemed the supreme, though not the 
extreme, Transcendentalist. The work of 
Coleridge, of the same general trend, was also 
felt, especially in clerical circles. Then 
there was quite a number of young men who 
went directly to Germany from New England 
and became imbued with the dominant Ger- 
man ideas in philosophy and literature, one 
of whom was the aforesaid Dr. Hedge, whose 
book, already mentioned, puts its chief stress, 
both by the length and the number of its ex- 
tracts, upon the Eomantic Writers. Brock- 
meyer devoured unquestionably the whole 
book, though he never acknowledged the fact 



BROCKMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 37^ 

to me, and, furtbermore, it is my opinion that 
lie derived thence his prevailing literary 
form, or, perchance, unfolded the manner of 
expression which was native to him. To the 
last he composed romantically, -even though 
he did not think that way. On this point a 
word of explanation may be here interjected. 
Brockmeyer spoke and wrote, when at his 
best, in sporadic outbursts from the depths 
of his being ; his manner, his eye, his word, his 
thought, came like a flash from a central fire, 
which was never quite able to get itself out- 
ered (or uttered) as a whole. He could, in- 
deed, be very keen and logical ; still his logic, 
even when aflame, was not so much a chain of 
glowing links as a succession of Jovian thun- 
derbolts separately hurled. One result was 
that he could never get himself or his things 
into shape; he would writhe and surge and 
roar, breaking over limits into the illimitable. 
Meanwhile he would give a dazzling display 
of fireworks, yea, blinding to most people, 
till they learned how to look at him. So in 
the main he talked when at the top of his 
mood; so, too, he wrote, though with much 
less freedom — the giant would rattle his 
shackles restlessly when chained to a goose- 
quill. He began perhaps a dozen tales or ro- 
mances, which after sputtering and coruscat- 
ing for a time (chiefly in his talk, by the way) 



372 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

would rush off toward the boundless and so 
remain unfinished and unfinishable. It 
seemed to be a necessity of his nature to 
break loose generally; he reacted against all 
form and formality, against all conventions 
and institutions; he became the incarnate 
spirit, or, perchance, fiend, of Romanticism, 
and therewith also of Transcendentalism, 
whose grand shout was enfranchisement. 
Well, enfranchisement from what! From 
quite everything, enfranchisement made uni- 
versal, especially liberation from the trans- 
mitted fetters of the moral and social order. 
This is what Brockmeyer proceeded to do 
when once the Transcendental Idea had fully 
entered his soul; he universalized its battle- 
cry of emancipation ; he would be completely 
emancipated, and so he flees to the primeval 
forest c ^ pure Nature, where he lives alone in 
his cabin without Family, State, Church, 
School, aud almost without the Economic Or- 
der, supporting himself chiefly by his rifle and 
from the wild berries and fruits and nuts of 
the environing fields and woods. The far- 
famed flight of Thoreau to Walden Pond wa^ 
a very tame, inconsequential affair in com- 
parison, hardly a mile distant from his orig- 
inal home and from a civilized town, out of 
which he could draw supplies for his potato 
hole, even if he cooked the potatoes himself. 



BROCKMEYEKS SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 373 

Yet this seems almost to have become the 
typical deed of New England Transcenden- 
talism. But Thorean could form his rather 
small act and thought in writ, Brockmeyer 
could not; the result is that the New En- 
glander has stamped his name and fame upon 
literature, while the Missourian is quite un- 
known, since his Titanic striving for utter- 
ance simply burst his pen and spattered the 
ink about in blotches, incoherent and illegible. 
Thus the very style of the man enfranchised 
itself, becoming, indeed, the symbol of his 
complete enfranchisement — enfranchisement 
made universal in the woods of Warren 
County. 

But now for a glimpse of the turn in the 
spiritual genesis of our Mr. Brockmeyer. He 
has universalized emancipation, has emanci- 
pated himself from, all — yet not quite from the 
All. What if now he gets a far-off gleam that 
he must emancipate himself just from this 
emancipation, which therein begins to turn 
back upon itself and apply itself to itself, be- 
coming thus truly universal! Yes, something 
of that sort is coming, has to come, if the pro- 
cess be carried to its full circle. Such is verily 
the new emancipation, namely, from itself, 
from its own negative stage into aught posi- 
tive — the transcension of Transcendentalism. 
In this fresh spiritual deliverance he obtains 



374 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

chief theoretical help, from Hegel, especially 
from the Logic, with its keen, double-edged 
dialectic — whereof later must be spoken a full 
word. 

At Brown University, therefore, our stu- 
dent was taking a course of his own wholly 
outside of the regular curriculum, in deepest 
accord with the time, as well as with his own 
soul's needs. He was already in a state of 
inner protest against the established view of 
religion, as we may see in his Georgetown 
experience. Perhaps we may catch an early 
shred of his daring, recalcitrant nature in his 
youthful flight from home, country and con- 
tinent. Transcendentalism gave him, accord- 
ingly, his opportunity at an epochal junc- 
ture; though he rose out of it afterwards, it 
left upon his spirit very deep markings for 
the rest of his days. I have already intimated 
that Brockmeyer did not form, probably 
could not, owing to his bound-bursting bent, 
natural doubtless, but developed into the 
deepest fibre of his mind by his New England 
experience. So his literary power, breaking 
forth at times with furious energy, ended in 
producing a torso, a work unformed if not 
formless. Still he showed the keenest appre- 
ciation of the, most f ormful of all poetry, the 
classic, as well as of the greatest poetic form- 
er and, indeed, re-former of modern times, 



BROCKMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. gyr^ 

Goethe. Nevertheless, at the top of his genius 
he wonld break through all restraint of out- 
line, ignoring the plastic moderation of the 
Greeks, and, turning Eabelaisian, would effer- 
vesce in dark oracles or iridescent bubbles 
which seemed to rise to the surface without 
cause or connection, coming nowhence and 
going nowhither, but shooting often a streak 
of bright bewilderment through the mind of 
the reader. His conversation, when it flashed 
from the summits, was of the same general 
type, sudden in sentence, far-glancing, but 
disconnected. His political speeches in their 
best passages, when he did not resign himself 
to mere buffoonery and play circus clown to 
the crowd, jetted upward on a background of 
sunshine a many-colored spray of fantastic 
humors; his fantasy on a political opponent 
(C. D. Drake) was as luxuriant of metaphor 
as anything in those supreme romanticists, 
Bichter and Hoffmann, both of whom, be it 
noted, by the way, Brockmeyer probably read 
in the characteristic selections given by 
Hedge's book. It is perhaps not too much to 
say that he suggested, if he did not create, 
a kind of political style, humorous, fanciful, 
etfervescent, which has been imitated in Mis- 
souri on the stump and has sometimes ap- 
peared in the newspapers. Just through the 
foregoing trait he could be enormously stimu- 



376 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

lating to the right person, but he gave little 
matter already formed and tractable; he did 
not finish or round out anything, not even his 
life of eighty years, which wound up in being 
a huge torso, verily the torso of all his torsos. 
Yet nobody that I ever knew of appreciated 
an organic work more thoroughly than he did, 
still he never organized. On this side he re- 
mained a romanticist to the end, even if he 
evolved out of that stage in his thinking, 
doubtless by way of Hegel. 

When I became acquainted with Brock- 
meyer, in 1865, the Eomantic, or Transcen- 
dental, stage had been left behind for several 
years, and he had made his return to civiliza- 
tion out of the woods. He had become again 
an institutional man, though he was still un- 
reconciled, both in theory and practice, with 
morality, which transmitted waif of human 
development the New Englanders still clung 
to amid their wildest emancipation, which, in 
their case, accordingly was not altogether 
universal, being laden with this prominent 
exception. But, as already stated, Brock- 
meyer universalized his emancipation to the 
last notch, throwing overboard the entire 
transmitted cargo of the prescribed order, 
not only institutional, but also moral. Thus 
he became truly a Titan in his absolute defi- 
ance of Zeus and the Olympian rule; or we 



BROCKMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 377 

may mytliologize him as a new sort of Poly- 
phemus, solitary in his cabin-cave, a gigantic 
Anarch of the forest. But the Titan pos- 
sessed the power of recovering institutions, 
bearing with him in his return many visible 
scars, yea, bleeding wounds, gotten in his 
former Titanic struggles. Such was his state 
when I first came to know him, and so he re- 
mained essentially, though he had also his 
own peculiar later evolution. Nevertheless, 
he sought to conceal, if not to deny his Tran- 
scendental period as long as I was acquainted 
with him ; he scoffed at the movement and its 
leaders, not even sparing gentle Emerson, 
and ridiculing Alcott and Thoreau, though he 
had done the same thing as they on a far 
huger scale; perchance, however, this was 
only Brockmeyer's present self laughing 
comically at his former self, which he had 
transcended. Still his ironical scotf at Eo- 
manticism was itself Romantic, especially 
when it took anything like a spontaneous lit- 
erary shape, so that it artfully appeared in its 
very concealment. He would have us believe, 
and perchance he tried to make himself be- 
lieve, that he had always been quite as he' 
stood before us spiritually in 1865 and the 
following years ; and I have to confess that I 
never distinctly caught the stages of his inner 
genesis till quite forty years after my first 



378 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

acquaintance with him, when we were both old 
men chatting together npon old times. This 
incident, which hit me with all the force of a 
sndden shock, befell as follows : 

According to an entry dated the 10th of 
Angnst, 1904, Mr. Brockmeyer, as I was talk- 
ing with him in the back room, broke loose on 
a new them'C, and made an astounding revela- 
tion of his early self, which seemed to me like 
the pouring forth of a long-pent-up confes- 
sion. ^'In my German boyhood I was a strict 
Lutheran, as were my parents, and I grew^ up 
nourished by the Bible, which I knew by 
heart. In Mississippi I became a Baptist and 
joined church; at Georgetown College I still 
held to that faith, in spite of my tussle with 
the President on a religious topic. To Brown 
I came as a Baptist in good standing, with my 
letter of transfer, which procured me a mem- 
bership in the church at Providence. But 
while there I got to reading on the outside 
and slowly began to drift away from my 
former moorings. ' ' Here it is at last ! Brock- 
meyer, the defiant, often the profane, and 
even blasphemous Titan — once a meek and 
believing church member in good standing! 
That was the greatest piece of news I ever 
listened to concerning him. If another per- 
son had said that^ I would not have believed 
it. And yet it explains him, it is the hitherto 
missing link of his evolutionary cycle, which 



BROCEMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 379 

he had never told to anybody else, as far as 
I am aware, in all the intervening years. Dr, 
Hall, who knew him at his retreat in Warren 
County, never spoke of it ; Mr. Harris, whose 
acquaintance with him goes back to 1858, 
made no mention of it, and doubtless had 
never heard of it ; Judge Woerner, who knew 
him as legislator in the early 60s, never al- 
luded to any such fact, and was probably not 
aware of it. All these men were intimates of 
Brockmeyer before my time and kept up their 
friendship for him; in their many talks with 
me about him they never called up the church 
member Brockmeyer, even as a fable of the 
past. But this stage clearly antedated his 
Transcendentalism, and was the prescriptive, 
religious, paradisaical period of his career, 
out of which he was jerked by his New En- 
gland experience and whelmed into his nega- 
tive, damnatory, Mephistophelean Inferno of 
a time, which was the second, deeply sepa- 
rative stage of his spiritual genesis. This 
was, indeed, an epoch of separation for him — 
inner and outer. We have already noted how 
defiantly, yea, how vengefully he separated 
from the total social establishment of man 
and took refuge in a purely individual life 
with Nature. Still, as he was desperately 
bent on universalizing him&elf — such was, in- 
deed, the most coercive elemental trait of his 



380 A WRITER OF B00K8. 

character — he had to react against his reac- 
tion, to separate from his separation, which 
thus begins to turn back upon itself and to 
undo itself of its own inherent dialectic. Or, 
to take the favorite metaphor, confounding 
and self-confounding, which he used to em- 
ploy for this operation: ^^The thing swal- 
lowed itself, and so disappeared.'' 

His movement out of this separative con- 
dition was not a single jump, but proceeded 
by slow gradations. I shall try to put to- 
gether some of the steps by which he marched 
away from the woods back to the civilized or- 
der, though he never connected them in my 
hearing, but dropped them in his talk one by 
one through many years. First of all. Love 
entered his leafy bower and drove its recal- 
citrant inmate by the bitter-sweet torments 
of a divine passion into the Family, the basic 
institution of man. Brockmeyer, even in the 
depth of his isolation, had to get powder and 
ball for overtaking his game from the eco- 
nomic world, and he still needed some gar- 
ments, though he claimed that he made his 
own furniture, consisting probably of very 
few pieces, that his bed-clothes were the skins 
of wild animals he had slain in the chase, that 
he wore a coonskin cap with switching tail, as 
Lincoln once did, and smoked a cob pipe of 
his own make. So he had to come to town now 



BROCKMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 3g| 

and tlien and earn a little money from that 
society wliicli lie spurned. He had two me- 
chanic trades, he was a tanner and a molder, 
and from either of them he could turn a little 
stream of coin into his pocket; when he had 
enough, he would hurry back to his forest 
home. On one of these visits to the city he 
met her, a gentle dame, but really the incipi- 
ent destroyer of his idyllic world, not by 
fierce blows, but by the sweet and silent per- 
suasions of love. He married her and took 
her out to his cabin for a while, but a fatal 
breach had been made in it, clearly the whole 
structure was coming down on their heads. 
So he had to flee back to what he had once fled 
from, but with a new consecration in his 
heart and with a vast new experience in his 
head. 

Not so very long after this event rolled an- 
other shock upon his world, truly that of an 
earthquake, which the mighty throes of the 
time had generated. One day a messenger 
came riding past his cabin door, and put into 
his hand a printed proclamation, which was a 
call of the Governor of the State (Gamble) to 
all men of military age to take up arms in 
defense of home and country. Brockmeyer 
more than once described to me the effect of 
this little slip of print upon him. He had 
heard with indifference of the rising political 



382 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

struggle between tlie North and the South, 
and had concluded to let them fight it out 
among themselves ; he would remain aloof in 
his own world. Having read the document, 
he went to bed in deep reflection ; but he woke 
up in the morning with the call of the Nation 
sounding in his ears, and he resolved to obey 
it at once. He hurried to his neighbors and 
enlisted a company of volunteers without de- 
lay. So successful was he that he obtained a 
commission to recruit a whole regiment ; this, 
too, he accomplished. Thus he found himself 
practically vindicating a second institution — 
the State. Surely he is getting out of the 
woods. 

At this point, however, a new turn sets in. 
He fell into some kind of trouble with the 
authority above him — a Titan would natur- 
ally do that. He came to the city, when a 
Deputy Marshal approached him in the Mer- 
cantile Library and asked him: ^'Are you 
Henry C. Brockmeyer T ' " That is my name, 
sir.^' "You are under arrest, '^ said the 
officer, and presented a warrant, unsigned 
and without stating any charge, as Brock- 
meyer declares, who was straightway con- 
ducted to the Gratiot Street Prison, where he 
was incarcerated with rebels. News of the 
arrest was quickly brought to Francis P. 
Blair by a philosophic friend of Brockmeyer 



BROCEMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 333 

named Haydon, a writing teacher. Blair suc- 
ceeded in getting tbe prisoner out of jail after 
a stay of tMrty-six hours, and expressed a 
wish to see him, evidently for the purpose of 
taking his measure. Brockmeyer, who 
blamed the Governor for his arrest, said 
something vengeful about him and his satel- 
lites, when Blair replied: ''So you intend to 
let them get the better of you, do you? For 
they have now the power. Let me tell you 
what to do. There is to be soon an election 
for the Legislature, which is a co-ordinate 
branch of the State government, and which 
the Executive has to respect and consult. Go 
home at once and see that good Union men are 
nominated and chosen from your district ; be 
one of them yourself. As member of the Leg- 
islature you will have something authorita- 
tive to say, even to the Governor. '^ Brock- 
meyer was at once filled with the new idea, 
which meant, indeed, for him a new career; 
he hurried back to Warren County and took 
his first lesson in stump-speaking, wire-pull- 
ing and electioneering, with such success that 
the whole ticket which he manipulated was 
overwhelmingly elected. So he passed in a 
few months' time from his military to his 
political stage, being elected to make laws for 
the State, truly another institutional dip of 
the practical sort. 



384 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Such was his first interview with Frank 
Blair, who deflected him into Missouri poli- 
tics, where he floundered for some twenty 
years of the best time of life. Moreover, he 
had now met a man whom he called demonic, 
the only man who could ever dominate his 
genius in any direction. Blair was not philo- 
sophical or literary, but desperately political 
and full then of a great institutional duty ; in 
this field Brockmeyer yielded him supremacy 
— the sole superiority which I ever heard him 
acknowledge. Was this turn a stroke of good- 
fortune for the philosopher? Was it a push 
forward in his right career? I have always 
doubted it. He has told me that before that 
time he intended to work out his world-view 
in philosophy, in literature, in poetry. His 
purpose was to become a Writer of Books. 
This first success of his in politics was prob- 
ably his greatest, though he afterwards be- 
came State Senator and Lieutenant Gov- 
ernor; he was intoxicated with what he 
deemed his new talent, and with a vast out- 
look upon a rosy future. Thirty years later 
I found him working again in philosophy and 
literature, trying to recover, as it appears 
to me, his lost career. He was then rushing 
rapidly toward three score and ten ; the pow- 
ers forbade him to do in the 90s what he 
might and ought to have done in the 60s. 



BROCKMEYER^'iS SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 335 

When I first became acquainted with him he 
was about forty years old, in the mature 
bloom of his highest gifts; he had already 
done a good deal of intellectual labor, es- 
pecially in translating Hegel ; but he had also 
vast schemes of literary work, some of them 
well begun, others merely sketched, all of 
which have remained fragments, with a single 
possible small exception. He still had to com- 
plete one great stage of the training of the 
writer, that is, of the Writer of Books; he 
still had to train himself to order his ever- 
welling but refractory thoughts into a whole 
which is thoroughly organized in every part. 
I believe him to have been on the way to this 
higher stage of his spiritual evolution, which 
could only be reached by industry and contin- 
ued practice, when the great diversion from 
his true vocation came, whirling him into poli- 
tics, for which he was not in any pre-eminent 
sense fitted, as the event showed. He was 
deeply disillusioned by the rod of time, the 
most severe, but the most honest, of all 
pedagogues ; but when he tried to pick up the 
lapsed skein of his destiny and to become once 
more a Writer of Books, after the loss of a 
full quarter of a century containing the pith 
of a lifetime, it was evident that he could not 
do it — he had not learned his lesson. He, 
therefore, never made the transition in writ 

25 



386 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

from his ebullient Eomantic period and man- 
ner, transforming Ms fantastic Transcen- 
dental cliaos into an harmonious, well-ordered 
cosmos. Now the significant fact of him is 
that he did make the above transition fully 
in thought, that is, in philosophy, though not 
in literature ; and this peculiar dualism stayed 
with him till his last day. 

Here it is in place to give some account of 
the mentioned philosophical transition of 
Brockmeyer, who was inclined not to own 
it, or, perchance, he was not fully conscious 
of it himself. It undoubtedly occurred 
through his thinking out and translating He- 
gel's Logic (large edition), about 1859-60. 
This book became to him, therefore, the great- 
est of all books, his very Bible ; he would read 
in it even during his political career, in order 
to recover his balance from the ups and downs 
of life, from the uncertain tetering of party 
power, and from the high tension of his very 
excitable emotional nature. It seemed to re- 
store him to a calm endurance and serenity 
similar to the effect which Spinoza's Ethics 
had upon Goethe, as the latter has described 
it. And yet in a number of ways Hegel's 
Logic is the opposite of Brockmeyer in char- 
acter; its passionless manner, wholly unro- 
mantic (therein differing from the same au- 
thor's Phenomenology) , but chiefly its colos- 



BROGKMEYER'8 SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 337 

sal power of organizing tlioiigiit, were not liis 
creatively, even if they were liis apprecia- 
tively. And yet that book was the anchor of 
his life, which he always flung out into the sea 
of his soul at the height of its oceanic tern 
pests. In his last days I found him reading 
it still, usually poring over his translation of 
it, with many retrospective reflections, one of 
which has stayed in my saddened memory on 
account of its melancholy implication of a lost 
career : ' ' If I had my life to live over again, I 
would devote it exclusively to Hegel — to his 
explanation and propagation.'' Still I could 
never push him to the point of printing his 
dearest life-work, though he was at that time 
amply able to bear the expense. 

It should be noted that there was an older 
philosophic set, to which I did not belong. 
This group had its start when Brockmeyer 
and Harris first met, accidentally, it would 
seem, at some gathering in the Small Hall of 
the old Mercantile Library Building. This 
took place, according to the statements of 
both men, in 1858, some seven years before 
my time. Brockmeyer was then still in his 
acute romantic period, with all its irregular 
but dazzling flashes from the central fire and 
smoke of his genius ; he was in town at that 
time earning some money from societ}^ to 
keep up his anti-social life in the woods; he 



388 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

represented himself to me as appearing at the 
above gathering unwashed, disheveled and 
ragged in his working clothes. Harris, then 
a peripatetic teacher of shorthand, was pass- 
ing through ^'his saurian period,'' as he 
humorously called it afterward, being much 
addicted to phrenology and to the vast swarm 
of isms which had broken loose in New Eng- 
land with Transcendentalism and was de- 
scending upon the West in countless flights 
like Kansas grasshoppers. I remember that 
some of these insects lit at Mount Gilead in 
my boyhood. Indeed the gathering at which 
both our heroes were present seems to have 
been one of '4ong-haired men and short- 
haired women, ' ' bent on reforming all the ills 
and pains of the world with paregorical 
panaceas thousandfold. Harris had already 
begun to study philosophy, and was infat- 
uated with the then popular French eclectic, 
Victor Consin, whom Brockmeyer jiist there 
shriveled into ashen dust at one white-hot 
touch of his all-consuming dialectic, where- 
upon Harris leaped up in stark amazement 
at that tattered piece of audacity. Still they 
had found themselves and began to gravitate 
toward each other, though they were in many 
points very different, yea antitypical, and re- 
mained so in spite of their common philoso- 
phy. Harris, the man of talent, very indus- 



BROCKMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 339'. 

trious and very careful of individuals, became 
naturally the pupil, as lie was nearly ten years 
younger than Brockmeyer, 'the man of genius, 
but rather indolent, and on the whole indif- 
ferent to individuals. Both were unmarried, 
simply birds of passage alighting in a large 
city where each had his own room in some 
lodging-house, natural abode of philosophers, 
so that he could easily give and take a tran- 
scendental visit. A few other men of the 
same general class of respectable vagabonds 
became associated with them, and this was 
the early group of philosophers — the fifty- 
eighters, none of whom are at present alive, 
as far as I am aware, and most of whom I 
never saw, as they had been scattered by the 
Civil War. The set was just beginning to 
get together again, with a number of new re- 
cruits but under the old leaders, Brockmeyer 
and Harris, when I first met them in the fall 
of 1865, six months or so after Appomattox. 
These two men have maintained themselves 
as the most prominent leaders of the St. Louis 
philosopliical movement. Now, if I were 
asked to give my opinion concerning the pecu- 
liar point of attraction which drew, two such 
diverse natures into their long friendship and 
co-operation, I would have to say that it was 
Transcendentalism, though of very different 
kinds. Both were eager seekers after the un- 



390 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

known, limit-transcending in their zeal, fer- 
vid emancipators of themselves and of their 
world. Harris had not long before studied 
at Yale College ; thus both had been New Eng- 
land students, the most enthusiastic even if 
the most frothy disciples of the new evangel 
during the grand Transcendental decennium 
of the 50 's. So their two spirits became 
twinned just now, having found a common 
point of origin and sympathy. But Brock- 
meyer was clearly growing discontented with 
the doctrine and with his own condition. In 
1859 and perhaps earlier he began to declare 
to his groui^ in substance that we must tran- 
scend Transcendentalism, applying its own 
logic and even its own name to itself, that we 
must rise out of and above Parker, Alcott, and 
even Emerson. But howf Who is to be the 
guide? Brockmeyer had noticed in Hedge's 
Prose Writers of Germany the place of Hegel 
as the culmination of the German philosoph- 
ical movement, which had outreached and un- 
done Eomanticism; from the same book he 
had also seen that the Logic was the creative 
center of the Hegelian system. So he said 
one day to his little group : ' ' That is the book 
for us to tackle." The book was sent for 
from Germany and paid for by Harris ; when 
it came, Brockmeyer set about translating it 
and expounding it to his friends. Such is the 



BROCEMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 39][ 

definite beginning of the St. Louis Hegelian 
movement — practically Brockmeyer's inter- 
pretation of HegePs Logic. He had one good 
listener and only one. This was W. T. Har- 
ris, who then began to be indoctrinated in his 
lifelong philosophy. The labor of translation 
and exposition must have lasted a year or 
more, the very small living expenses of the 
translator being paid by his friends. This 
took place in 1859-60, which was Brock- 
meyer's pivotal philosophic year and marks 
his transition in thought out of his Romantic 
stage into an organic system of the universe 
of intelligence, where he remained theoretic- 
ally for the rest of his life, which, however, 
had an evolution of its own not here to be con- 
sidered. Parallel with this theoretical and 
intellectual side of his development, but 
slower, ran his practical and institutional ex- 
perience in the same direction. Thus was 
Brockmeyer's idyllic world in the forest shat- 
tered to atoms subjectively and o^ojectively 
we may say, though many an atom and some 
pretty large rough boulders of that same ex- 
ploded world floated with him still down the 
stream of Time to his final passage beyond. 

With this year of Hegelian translation and 
interpretation on the part of Brockmeyer the 
St. Louis philosophical movement makes its 
definitive germinal beginning. The chief ef- 



392 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

feet was produced upon the Titan himself, 
who now spiritually moves out of his revolted 
Titanism over a massive bridge of Thought 
already constructedj which, however, had to 
be reconstructed with infinite pains by every 
soul that ever succeeded in crossing it, and 
which our philosophic interpreter had the 
marvelous power of rebuilding for himself 
as well as for others who could not possibly 
have done such work for themselves. I may 
add that William T. Harris, destined to be- 
come the most famous man ever connected 
with the movement on account of his varied 
public career afterwards, also passed out of 
his i3revious rather chaotic flighty Transcen- 
dental condition (his self-styled saurian pe- 
riod), and, during this memorable philosophic 
year (the annus mirahilis of the new-born 
cause and its chief promoters) became the 
stanch, rock-bound ever-ready protagonist of 
Hegelianism against all foes the globe over. I 
may be permitted to remind the reader, in 
order that no mistake be made, that I was not 
present during this fecund brooding time, 
though I have often heard it described by its 
two chief participators, neither of whom, I 
have to think, ever showed himself cfuite 
conscious of its true place and significance in 
his personal evolution. Brockmeyer was in- 
clined to look at himself as having existed 



BROCKMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 



393 



perclianee from the dawn of consciousness 
just the same big Brockmeyer of forty years 
old — namely, he had been a full-fledged He- 
gelian as a baby. Harris was inclined to put 
stress upon his early reading in the Indian 
philosophy (and it must be confessed that 
through life he was in the habit of dropping 
back from almost anywhere into the Oriental 
world and giving an infinite dissertation upon 
its infinities) ; but more particularly he in 
after years emphasized as his philosophic 
starting point his study of Kant along with 
Brocknaeyer and the little group in 1858-59. 
Eeally, however, neither of them at that time 
understood Kant, or could understand him 
till they had obtained the key to him through 
Hegel who, being the final evolution out of 
Kant, is the latter 's true explanation. Tran- 
scendentalism had, and a surviving fragment 
of it still has, a tendency to flee back to Kant 
as its germinal source and authority, till it 
begins to get out of itself. So these two men 
had as it were groped rearward to the Tran- 
scendental beginning in that first Kant club 
(there was a second Kant club many years 
afterwards — nearly . twenty — with which 
Brockm'eyer had nothing to do, but in which 
Harris with a later group seemed to make a 
fresh return upon his Transcendental ori- 
gin). But this Kantian backward sweep was 



394 A WRITER OF BOOKS, 

the finality; it was soon succeeded by the 
supreme forward stride into Hegel, through 
Brockmeyer as translator and expositor, who. 
led the rest along by the hand as far as they 
were able to walk in that very intricate but 
planful thought-maze of the logically ordered 
universe. 

Intellectually this was Brockmeyer 's condi- 
tion when I became acquainted with him a few 
years later and was so dominated by his 
demonic intellectual power as well as by his 
spontaneous poetic outpourings that I took 
my own year at the University Brockmeyer, 
of which I have already given an account, 
parallel to, yet quite different from, that first 
genetic philosophical year, which had tran- 
spired before my arrival in the city. But now 
I have circled around back to myself again in 
my own development, having brought down 
to my own date the inner genesis (as I under- 
stand it) of the man whom I in gratitude rev- 
erence as my spiritual father, even if I re- 
belled against some of his doctrines from the 
start, could never approve of much of his 
conduct, and finally felt my own deepest call 
to transcend his entire system in a new-world 
discipline. 

Very significant, not only personally but 
universally, is this Brockmeyerian cycle of 
evolution, yet hardly known was it to his iliost 



BROCKMEYEWS SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 395 

intimate friends during liis life and percliance 
to liimself. To be sure the fact of his flight 
to the woods in Warren County was often 
rehearsed by him and others; also the fact 
of his going to Brown University he fre- 
quently mentioned, likewise the philosophic 
year of 1859-60 with its acquisition of Hegel 
was not left untrumpeted. But the move- 
ment of the man's inner life, or that which I 
have called his spiritual genesis, was never 
distinctly formulated, and, as I have to think, 
never clearly seen even by himself. Now so 
impressive and important is this soul-process 
of him, at least to me as a writer of books, 
that I intend to restate it here at the close 
of the present account of him in a brief sum- 
mary of its three leading stages, which, it 
must be remembered, include only about 
forty years of his career. 

I. The first is his prescriptive, traditional, 
unestranged period, in which he is in harmony 
with his transmitted social and even religious 
environment. This brings him to his twenty- 
fifth year or thereabouts; till then his was an 
innocent, paradisaical, seemingly unfallen ex- 
istence; let us conceive Brockmeyer now as 
church-member, dutiful and harmonious. 

II. Next comes the grand cataclysm of his 
jife, his breach with the whole institutional 
world and the flight from it back to eLe- 



396 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

mental Nature, himself becoming elemental 
along with Nature and a Titan in revolt. 
Such was his grand subsidence into a kind of 
underworld ; we may say mythically that this 
new Missouri Titan was, like the old Greek 
one, hurled down into Erebos by Zeus and the 
Olympians, the Gods of mundane order, re- 
ligious, political, social; there he stayed, 
given over to his negative individual self 
mainly, for some six or eight years. This 
mighty catastrophe of him began with his 
entrance into Brown University and his 
plunge there into New England Transcenden- 
talism about 1852 (this date he once gave me, 
yet with a wrinkle of uncertainty on his 
brow). He was still a man of tradition when 
he went to Brown, wholly with the design of 
acquiring the traditional culture of his time ; 
then there surged in upon him unexpectedly 
the new revolutionary tide which swept away 
his old transmitted landmarks and bore him 
off into its bound-defying ocean. 

III. Third is his return and restoration, first 
of all to the institutional world, through his 
own inner changes as well as through the ex- 
igencies of the tinle ; he came back practically 
to Family, Society, State, but never again to 
the Church, though in the latter case he 
showed a kind of theoretical acquiescence, 
probably on account of the influence of his 



BROCKMEYER'S SPIRITUAL GENESIS. 397 

pliilosopliic master, Hegel. It was this mas- 
ter, however, who brought to him hJs supreme 
intellectual recovery, and the spiritual recon- 
struction of his world-view, as already set 
forth. Still he carried back to civilization 
from the woods his Titanic underworld of 
feeling, which would sometimes break forth 
into a thunderous volcanic eruption, objur- 
gatory, damnatory of existing tendencies, 
with a profanity capable of descending into a 
Rabelaisian obscenity and minatory of 
Heaven and Earth, whereat civilized people 
were not only shocked, but often shrank back 
in terror from his Vesuvian outburst, giving 
him no good name in the community. It 
would seem as if at times he had to blow 
ofP his Titanic moods which still lurked and 
fermented mightily under the deep dark sea 
of his sub-conscious being, in defiance of his 
intelligence — like Enceladus, the old Titan 
under Mount Etna, rolling from side to side in 
earthquakes and bursting out in volcanic 
eruptions. My call was to endure him for the 
sake of his better genius, and I learned how 
to deflect him frequently in the midst of his 
wildest paroxysms into his higher self. Even 
during his last illness he, though in bed, 
would flare up suddenly from the nether 
depths of his emotional nature and start to 
gesticulating, grimacing and bellowing in the 



398 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

sheer tension of liis excitement, when I would 
soothingly lay my hand upon his arm and 
speak to him a calm, low word, turning his 
mind off into some salient thought of Hegel, 
his grand solacer and reliever of ills. Thus 
he could he brought to re-enact his old resto- 
ration from his negative period in the woods, 
traveling anew the same remedial road which 
once led him out of his Titanic despair. 

Here I may append that a human being 
with such a colossal experience backing him, 
yet still revolving mightily within him and 
drawing the whole universe into its process, 
had something very impressive and significant 
to say to me in 1865. I, too, had been at col- 
lege and had gotten its traditional training 
and culture up to a given point; I had also 
felt its insufficiency and on certain sides had 
tried to remedy it myself. The transmitted 
religion I at least knew, and also the current 
philosophy, in both cases chiefly as a student, 
not as a zealous supporter or assailant. After 
a small fashion I was in reaction against the 
world of prescription, though not on Tran- 
scendental lines ; I had indeed felt deeply its 
conflicts and was quietly wrestling with it, 
certainly not as a Titan defiant and world- 
storming, or at most as a very little one. I 
never fled, never intended to flee to the woods. 
Still I was unanchored and in protest, seek- 



IN THE HIGH SCHOOL. 399 

ing unconsciously some intellectual center 
when Brockmeyer chanced to pass my way 
and speak a word drawn from his life's 
depths. Instantaneously I recognized him 
at that Sunday meeting on Salisbury street^ 
though I had been able to catch no spiritual 
outline of him -eighteen months before when I 
first met him at the French boarding-house. 
Then, as soon as I could, I entered his Uni- 
versity and remained there till I deem-ed my- 
self ready to take another new step behind 
the curtain of the future. Of this I shall next 
speak. 

V. 

In the High School. 

The fall term of 1867 I became one of the 
teachers in the St. Louis High School, then 
very small compared to what it is at present. 
As I recollect it at that time, it had about a 
dozen instructors in its total faculty and to- 
ward three hundred pupils in its four grades. 
I remained there uninterruptedly for ten 
years, till I started for Europe. After I 
came back from abroad I again took a position 
in the same school for about eighteen months, 
when I resigned for good. This second stay 
began near the close of 1879, after more than 
two years ' absence, and was not specially sig- 
nificant to me nor to anybody else, as far as I 



400 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

am aware ; I no longer felt in liarmony with 
it; the school had changed, I had changed, 
and the Principal (Morgan) had seriously 
changed. But tlios'e first ten years, my High 
School decennium as I may call it, were very 
important to me not only in my lifelong voca- 
tion as teacher, but also were epochal in my 
literary evolution as a Writer of Books. In 
the latter regard I shall try to give some out- 
line of this period in so far as I understand 
it myself. 

Probably my chief transition was on an 
interior line from my work in the University 
Brockmeyer to ipxJ work in the High School. 
These two institutions of learning, though 
on the outside very different — the one seem- 
ingly being a sort of intangible, ideal thing, 
the other a very real affair — were directly 
and deeply connected in my development. I 
began to teach with zeal what I had just 
learned, the opportunity offering ; thus, how- 
ever, I started to take a wholly new course of 
instruction, exemplifying afresh the old peda- 
gogical maxim discit docendo. Probably, too, 
because I was such an eager learner in cer- 
tain branches I was the better teacher of 
them, in accordance with another apothegm 
of the school: Bene docet qui bene -discit. 
At any rate I conceive myself as now slip- 
ping into Brockmeyer 's shoes, humbly and 



IN THE HIGH SCHOOL. 4Q;[ 

slowly, in an organized institution; that is, 
what he was to me, I began to be to some of 
my pnpils, perchance in certain studies. So 
I commenced to carry along the University 
Brockmeyer into the High School, qnite nn- 
conscious to myself of the fact at the time. 
I should add that the administrative environ- 
ment was not only friendly but actively sym- 
pathetic with such a movement on my part. 
Harris, the most devoted Hegelian propa- 
gandist that ever lived and himself really an 
offshoot of the University Brockmeyer, 
though he may not have looked at himself in 
that light, had been chosen Superintendent of 
Schools this same autumn (1867) and had 
started on his career of imparting what he 
had learned to the whole system of Public 
Instruction, and also of learning thereby still 
more. In this field he won a great name, 
world-known in fact. My imm'ediate supe- 
rior, Principal Morgan, was likewise ferment- 
ing along the same line, though somewhat 
irregularly, and participated in our philo- 
sophic meetings. And the rest of the High 
School faculty were carried ahead, even if 
rather languidly, by the prevailing current, 
which swept down from the highest adminis- 
trative sources, and seemed to be the right 
road to promotion as well as to culture. Thus 
philosophy was, for once at least during its 



402 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

rather precarious existence, mightily rein- 
forced by the prospect of an increase of sal- 
ary. Such was, in general, the favorable, yea 
the stimulating school-atmosphere during my 
entire High School decennium. Opportunity, 
always a capricious Goddess, now smiled on 
me, and I wooed her with all my powers^ not 
knowing, however, at which end of the horn 
I might come out, the little or the big. 

No longer an immediate pupil of the Uni- 
versity Brockmeyer, I was as yet by no means 
free of my spiritual apprenticeship to the 
man's genius, and I visited him often. Even 
our families, though dwelling quite a distance 
apart, had some intercourse. So I may call 
myself still his apprentice, and him still the 
master. It is true that I turned away from 
not a little of both his theory and practice; 
but even after this considerable subtraction, 
he had far more for me- than any other living 
man. Still this could not be at present the 
main stream of my life; my young vocation 
with its six hours' concentrated effort per 
day absorbed the flower of my creative, en- 
ergy. But I had certain favorite branches 
which "evoked more of my deepest self than 
others; the latter I taught less enthusiastic- 
ally, but, I believe, conscientiously. During 
the ten years, my range of instruction varied 
a good deal and embraced nearly every study 



IN THE HIGH SCHOOL. 



403 



of the curriculum of the High Scliool. I shall 
here, however, take brief note only of those 
which laid the foundation for the Writer of 
Books, who developed later, but was obtaining 
a good deal of his building material during 
this period. 

(a) The class in Mental' Philosophy filed 
into my room for their lesson, the first day, 
and received from me what I deem my earliest 
act of instruction in the High School, a kind 
of prologue not only to the coming decennium, 
but to an important strand of my entire life. 
For the study was really that of Psychology, 
though of the kind then regnant — the text- 
book was Haven's, mostly patterned after 
Sir W. Hamilton. I at once began to inter- 
weave many a thought which I had gotten at 
the University Brockme^^er and from my own 
probings into Hegel. For this the course of 
the lesson furnished an excellent opportunity; 
I could mingle recitation from the text-book 
with dictation of my own as long as my stores 
lasted. Thus I started to metamorphose that 
old Psychology and to underprop it with the 
far deeper Hegelian view of mind; the.proc- 
ess lasted during the whole decennium, as 
this branch I kept hold of to the last. Prac- 
tically in a few years I had transformed the 
entire subject, and moreover had completely 
organized it, with not a few additions of my 
own. 



404 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

But the Hegelian Psychology which I had 
wrought out with so much labor and had 
taught for so many years, I was destined 
long afterwards to transcend and to push over 
into a wholly different Psychology. In 1893-4 
it was when I hegan teaching a psychological 
class in the Chicago Kindergarten College, 
on account of a sudden emergency. I had 
given no instruction in this branch sinc,e the 
close of my High School career many years 
before. But I at once recalled my whole 
organization of the subject and easily repro- 
duced it for my auditors. These seemed well 
satisfied to find this rambling and disjointed 
science put together into an ordered totality ; 
but when the course was over, I myself was 
deeply dissatisfied with it and felt that the 
whole subject must be reconstructed not only 
from a new standpoint but from a deeply dif- 
ferent world- view. I then became fully aware 
that I had outgrown the old Plegelian formu- 
lation ; but this evolution belongs to a period 
later than the present narrative, and long 
after my High School decennium. Still I may 
add here that the foregoing break into a new 
thought-world found its first expression in 
the book called Psychology and the Psychosis 
(1896), to me at least the morning herald 
not simply of another philosophy after the 
old European pattern, but of another disci- 



IN THE HIGH SCHOOL. 



405 



pline beyond pliilosopliy, which has itself to 
be transcended in our Occidental life. So this 
last-mentioned book I hold to be a develop- 
ment of nearly forty years ont of that primal 
grapple with Psychology in my first lesson 
given at the High School. I began then to 
organize it, to be snre after Hegel with Brock- 
meyer's illumination, and I held on till I not 
only organized that one branch, but gradually 
learned the principles of all organization — 
to be sure, to the extent of my understanding. 
(h) Next I place Moral Philosophy, which 
succeeded the foregoing study after the lapse 
of the first half-year. Again a transmitted 
text-took was put into the hands of the pupils, 
that of President Hickok, and I spun through 
it many new threads, subjecting it to a trans- 
formation like that already described. The 
subject threw me specially upon one of 
Hegel's best volumes, p'erhaps the most prac- 
tical and intelligible of all, his Philosophy of 
Right, embracing a treatment of Law, Morals, 
and Institutions. I made abstracts of these 
three subjects, dictated them and expounded 
them to the class (seniors) who gave many 
evidences of their interest. After their grad- 
uation, some of them asked for a post-gradu- 
ate course in Mental and Moral Philosophy — 
a thing not often heard of then. But it is 
my opinion that I was learning more than my 



406 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

pupils, especially at the start; again I was 
transferring the University Brockmeyer into 
the High School and becoming the Scholarch 
in his place, though mine was an organized 
institution of learning; yea, I think I can 
truly say that I was now putting into order 
and so realizing his sky-high University of 
H-elter-Skelter, which no human soul ever at- 
tended as student except myself, or probably 
could attend. 

The greatest and most lasting result upon 
myself of this instruction was that it drove 
me to an insight into the significance of the 
whole institutional realm. If I should be 
asked for my opinion as to the chief contribu- 
tion of Hegel not merely to philosophy but to 
the cause of humanity, I would put my finger 
upon what he has said and done for Institu- 
tions. The world has by no means yet ap- 
propriated or even appreciated his thought 
upon this subject. It underlies all the social 
movements and sociology of our time. It is 
•especially considered in his work on the Phil-^ 
osopliy of Right, but runs through many of 
his other works. In illustrating this side of 
his master Brockmeyer was peculiarly happy 
and in his most congenial element; he was an 
institutional man, one-sidedly so I think, for 
lie neglected the twin, the moral. As for my- 
self I was now becoming consciously institu- 



IN THE HIGH SCHOOL. 4Q7 

tional, through study and instruction, and 
my past life both at Oberlin and in the Civil 
War furnished me with many a commentary 
upon what I was thinking and teaching. In- 
deed I began applying my new insight to Art 
and Literature, to History and Politics; I 
glimpsed them all, unfolding on an institu- 
tional strand as their essence. 

Still in this case also I had to move out of 
Hegel and Brockmeyer, transcending their 
view of Institutions, after entertaining it not 
only in my intellect but also in my heart for 
many years, and caressing it fondly, I may 
say, as one of my dearest spiritual treasures. 
The Writer of Books may be suffered to add 
that this stage of his evolution had to culmi- 
nate in a book, which bears the title Social 
Institutions (1901) and which was followed 
by another institutional book The State 
(1902). Such late-born progeny I trace back 
in origin to my High School decennium, 
when I became consciously institutional, even 
if I was unconsciously so before. 

(c) During the same general period (the 
decennium) a class in Universal History was 
assigned to me by the Principal for a couple 
of years. The subject was fascinating to me ; 
I had already had at College a spell of eager 
historical study, especially I had read the 
Greek Historians whom I had by no means 



408 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

forgotten in the original. So I was delighted 
with my fresh task which I began at once to 
elaborate and to organize after my new world- 
view. But here I received no help from 
Brockmeyer, who did not like History and 
really had little historic sense, differing on 
this point from his master Hegel, whose work 
called The Philosophy of History he rather 
neglected, while I pored over it with great 
delight and profit. This is probably HegePs 
most popular book, and it was the only one 
at that time accessible in a printed English 
translation. Still its inadequacy I felt vaguely 
in this instruction, chiefly because it had no 
place for Occidental or American History 
unless as a little tail-piece to Europe. Hence 
it came about with the flight of the years that 
the Writer of Books wrought over and re- 
modeled this sphere of knowledge, setting 
down the result in a book entitled European 
History (1907) to which book several others 
might be joined. 

(d) Some three of four years of the 
decennium had elapsed, when I asked the 
Principal to assign me a branch in Natural 
Science, the teacher of that department hav- 
ing resigned. It was a time of renewed inter- 
est in the study of Nature, being especially 
stimulated by the discussions over Dar- 
win's work on the Origin of the Species, 



IN THE HIGH SCHOOL. 



409 



wliicli was then little more than ten years old. 
This work I read with diligence and annotated 
in parts, hut it Left me in donbt. Moreover 
Hegel, though running over with logical evo- 
lution, distinctly discredits biological evolu- 
tion; my other Mentor, Brockmeyer, also 
seemed to face up against the same untrans- 
parent limit, though he said little. But there 
was at that time a great push for introducing 
a more thorough study of Natural Science 
into the Public Schools; I took advantage of 
this drift, with the result that the Principal 
in the end handed over to me practically the 
whole department. In the course of several 
years it fell to my lot to give instruction in 
Natural Philosophy (Mechanics and Physics), 
Chemistry, Physiology, Botany, Geology and 
Zoology (Natural History), which I not only 
expanded from the text-books by outside 
reading, but sought to connect and to inter- 
relate in a common Science of Nature. Here 
again Hegel was a great help through his 
much-defamed Philosopliy of Nature, which, 
I shall have to confess, seemed to me in 
parts far-fetched and fantastic, with not a 
few deductions and transitions which I could 
never get through my head after all my des- 
perate poundings. Still it suggested and for- 
mulated the unity of Nature in itself, and also 
its place in the unity of the All, of which it 



410 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

is one stage or phase according to the Hegel- 
ian Philosophy. 

Herein lay the deepest fascination of the 
subject for me : I wished to see Nature take 
its place in a system of the Universe, of 
which Hegel has the three well-known divi- 
sions, Logic, Nature, Spirit. Of these I had 
already imposed on myself a pretty thorough 
training in Logic and Spirit (Geist) during 
five or six years; so I had begun to feel an 
intense longing to supply the missing inter- 
mediate link. Indeed I had ere this made 
many little excursions into Nature by my- 
self, and had translated a good part of 
HegePs book for my own private advance- 
ment. I spent nearly the whole of one sum- 
mer vacation in Shaw 's Garden contemplating 
plant-life and botanizing. Also I went in the 
winter to McDowell's Medical College to hear 
lectures, but -especially to learn something 
about dissection, in pursuit of which I had to 
cut up my man along with the other students. 
Nor were the revelations of the microscope 
neglected. So I felt myself fairly ready, 
when the opportunity offered, to annex 
Nature to my intellectual domain, and to 
order it in harmony with my dawning world- 
view. ^This I would be driven to do by the 
requirements of instruction, while to the new 
branches 1 could now give my undivided 



m THE HIGH SCHOOL. ^^H 

attention, since by this time I had put into 
shape both the Mental Philosophy and the 
Ethics, at least as far as I was then able. 

In this field of Nature Brockmeyer was by 
no means left out, but he took a peculiar posi- 
tion, derived from his long first-hand contact 
with the physical world in the woods. He 
was like Nimrod, "a mighty hunter before 
the Lord," and his stories of the chase 
showed the keenest observation of the animal 
kingdom with its environment. These stories 
at their best would flash ideas at 'every turn 
from a string of personal experiences; that 
is, he poetized his hunting exploits almost in 
spite of himself. He had lived for years in 
the closest communion with Nature, and had 
listened to her varying moods with the deep- 
est sympathy, to which he brought an insight 
all his own. Solitary in his cabin with the 
forests and hills around him, and living the 
life of the seasons in the company of Mother 
Earth herself, he viewed Nature not with the 
analytic eyes of the scientist but with the im- 
mediate intuition of the seer. He beheld 
easily the total process of which this one act 
of killing a deer was but a part, and would 
recount it in that way. He was never happier 
than when he' was celebrating his triumphs 
over big game, often falling into a kind of 
paean of victory. Thus he looked at Nature 



412 A. WRITER OF BOOKS. 

poetically and also pMlosopMcally with a fel- 
low-feeling, bnt hardly scientifically. My 
practical function, however, was to teach it 
according to science, thongh I did not neglect 
the other two sides, relishing all three, as far 
as I can judge of m3^self, with an equal appe- 
tency. 

Another faculty of Brockmeyer in his vis- 
ion of Nature — and one rapturously fascinat- 
ing to me the listener — ^was his mythologizing 
his exploits, 'especially in the chase. He would 
put himself into the center of things as a kind 
of all-controlling Zeus, and bring about the 
events of the world, yea the physical phenom- 
ena of his environment. He would seem to 
say that he caused the wild horned stag roam- 
ing the woods in freedom to run just at a 
given moment before his gun and get shot. 
AYhat a big hunting-lie again! the average 
unmythical un-Homeric man of our time 
would exclaim. And yet in a sense Brock- 
meyer had told the truth, though clothing the 
fact in fable. He knew the habits of the ani- 
mal, knew the time of day — just at the peep 
of dawn — when it would timidly quit its nest 
in the deep forest and hasten to the distant 
pool to slake its thirst while men were still 
asleep. But Brockmeyer was there under 
cover with weapon pointed, for he had ob- 
served the tell-tale tracks to and from the 



IN THE HIGH SCHOOL. 4^3 

water tlie day before, and had divined the 
whole act of the animal and its purpose. He 
had overreached its little world with his intel- 
ligence and so controlled it even in its free- 
dom, as the high Homeric Zens controls 
mortals, notably small Agamemnon, below on 
earth, leaving them also to their own sweet 
will. Did he command the deer to pass before 
him just then and meet its fate? In a myth- 
ical sense, yes ; in a prosaic sense, no ; but the 
animal did it just the same. To be sure Brock- 
meyer had his love of mystification; but he 
was a born myth-maker like Homer, with 
whom he always showed a unique bond of 
sympathy, and would drop into a little epic 
extemporaneously while narrating a day's 
hunting adventure, he being the Olympian 
God and the game being the mortals. 

As to myself I was exceedingly susceptible 
to this gift of his, and understood it from the 
start, through certain early experiences of 
my own. I had been a farmer's boy, and had 
felt the immediate pulse of Nature at numer- 
ous points of her organism. "When I moved 
to the village I still hunted and fished a good 
deal, and became acquainted with the habits 
of smaller game and of the finny tribe, and 
learned how to overreach them. Some said 
that I could kill squirrels when nobody else 
could find them, and could catch fish from a 



414 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

mill dam when the person sitting beside me 
with his tackle could not get a nibble. It was 
supposed that I pnt some kind of medicine 
on my hook along with the bait which irresis- 
tibly Inred the sucker to bite. But I was then 
well aware that all this popular fabling was 
simply a tribute to my better attention to the 
habits of game, and the consequent superior 
knowledge. But I never mythologized my- 
self in such a relation or thought of it till I 
saw Brockmeyer performing the trick, and 
understood it at the first overture. With 
keen delight I may add that the myth-making 
Brockmeyer, fabling his hunting exploits, 
helped me behold the 'epical world of Homer, 
with its interplay of mankind and godkind. 

So my instruction in Nature at the High 
School, lasting several years altogether, had 
a tendency to branch out on three lines — 
scientific, poetic and philosophic. Of course 
in the school-room I put full stress upon the 
transmitted facts and principles of the given 
Sciences; still, at the sam'e time I satisfied 
my own longing for unity — which I found in 
my pupils also — by ordering these Sciences 
into a connected System of Nature, as well as 
I could, through Philosophy. Some close ob- 
servers noted that this fact gave a peculiar 
color to the science-teaching of the High 
School at that time. But, if I may deliver 



UJ THE HIGH SCHOOL. 4][5 

judgment on myself, the deepest bent of me in 
dealing with Nature, though the most hidden, 
was the poetic and mythical. This bent had 
to rise to the surface when the opportunity 
appeared, for which I was always on the look- 
out; finally the axial moment came and I 
clutched for it with all my might, winning a 
new and important branch of study which 
made an epoch in the life of this Writer of 
Books. 

(e) This was the work in Shakespeare, 
which began in 1871, and continued for six 
years, to the close of the decennium, winding 
up with a book of considerable size, really my 
first organic book, and therein the prelude of 
the chief character of my entire productive 
activity. I had long secretly sighed for this 
branch of instruction without any hope of 
ever getting it. At last the Assistant-Princi- 
pal who taught it was transferred to another 
school, and I was asked "to take his position, 
which was regarded as a promotion. But I 
did not wish to get involved too much in the 
administration of the High School. I was 
too deeply enamored of my call — so I thought 
it — to organize all the branches of instruction 
upon a basic principle sprung of the Hegelian 
Philosophy. To such a task the new place, 
while a touching compliment personally, 
might be a hindrance. Therefore I declined 



416 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

it. But Principal Morgan appealed to me 
with great urgency, employing what he evi- 
dently deemed his strongest argument: ^'If 
you do not take the position, Davidson will 
surely get it, through the Germans on the 
Board of Directors ; you know what will be 
the effect of such a selection upon the disci- 
pline of the school." Mr. Thomas Davidsori 
had joined the High School faculty the same 
year that I did — a few months later, if I recol- 
lect aright ; he was brilliant, sociable, the most 
learned man of us all and possessed of a real 
literary gift, attractive but not very profound 
or well-integrated. At the time he was 
strongly Teutonizing, though afterwards he 
wheeled about to just the opposite. His ped- 
agogical weakness lay in his lack of keeping 
order ; his room was famous as the noisiest in 
the building, and, what was worse, he was in- 
clined to uphold theoretically the principle of 
, a free anarchy among his pupils. The fact is, 
he had no institutional sense with all his 
splendid parts and erudition. For this rea- 
son among others, he came nigh to being my 
antitype, not only in the school but in litera- 
ture, in philosophy and especially in the criti- 
cism of the masterpieces. Moreover at the 
house of Harris during some gathering of the 
philosophers he had a furious clash with 
Brockmeyer who shriveled him up in scorch- 



IN THE HIGH SCHOOL. 



417 



ing and angry sarcasm, and whom he always 
hated and scoffed at afterwards, but" 
whom he did not understand at all. Though 
a graduate of a Scottish University, I do not 
believe that he could have entered even the 
first grade of the University Brockmeyer. 
Still Mr. Davidson had his unique place in 
our circle. I always appreciated his gifts 
within their true range ; this I showed by em- 
ploying him repeatedly at the Chicago Liter- 
ary School even against the wishes of my 
associates. So much for genial Scotch Tom, 
always smiling yet always critical, with his 
burning tongue and his broad red brick of a 
beard suspended from his chin. 

Coming back to Principal Morgan, I saw 
that I could wrest from him that which my 
heart was set upon, but which he wished, as I 
think, to keep for himself. So I said: "Will 
you give me the Shakespeare class which the 
last Assistant-Principal taught? '^ Morgan 
crossed his eyes with a new cross in medita- 
tion, and ruffled his features for a moment 
as if swallowing a disagreeable dose which 
he could not help, then spoke: "Yes, I'll do 
that, too.'' "Very well, take my consent to 
the board." Thus I was promoted to the 
Assistant-Principalship of the High School, 
which I did not care for, but at the same time 
t obtained the opportunity as well as .the in- 



418 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

centive to organize tbe greatest literary phe- 
nomenon of the ages, and this is what I did 
care for supremely. The reader must under- 
stand that there was then but one class, the 
Seniors, in Shakespeare ; along with it I con- 
tinued the work in Natural Science as well as 
in Mental and Moral Philosophy. 

Thus I entered upon a new phase of my 
career as a Writer of Books, namely the inter- 
pretation of the world-poets. This impulse 
has lasted long and is still active, just this 
week in fact. For instance I have repeatedly 
interrupted the writing of the present book 
(fall of 1909) in order to go to classes in 
Homer and Shakespeare, which reach back in 
origin to my starting-point in the old High 
School. Again my method was derived from 
what I had glimpsed in the University Brock- 
meyer, backed by very thorough studies in 
Hegel's three large volumes on Aesthetic, 
which shows the philosopher's organization 
of the total art-world including poetry. To 
be sure, Mr. Brockmeyer knew Shakespeare 
as a whole not at all, and very little of the 
poet in parts ; still he acknowledged the great 
Anglo-Saxon dramatist. On the other hand 
he utterly rejected Dante, and could damn 
the Florentine to his own Inferno. With 
Homer he had (as already indicated) a deep 
sympathy on the mythical side, but I never 



IN THE HIGH SCHOOL. 419 

heard liim give the least hint of the organiza- 
tion of the Iliad or of the Odyssey. Really 
Goethe was his one supreme poet, whom he 
had also ordered in his ''Letters on Fanst/' 
which were to me a great spiritual leaven and 
first suggested what I should do with Sliake- 
speare. And then on the same general line I 
passed from Shakespeare to the other Lit- 
erary Bibles along with the evolving years, 
after the High School decennium, feeling even 
the necessity of going hack to Brockmeyer's 
''Faust," my starting-point, and reconstruct- 
ing it after what I had come to believe a more 
complete standard of interpreting a world- 
poem. Still it must not be forgotten that the 
whole literary strand, as well as philosophical, 
of the St. Louis movement goes back to 
Henry C. Brockmeyer as its original source, 
even if he derived it out of Hegel, through his 
own genius — which, I hold, none of the rest of 
us could have done. He was the peculiarly 
gifted mediator of the great German Renas- 
cence of the century for our little St. Louis 
set, from which it rayed out in various direc- 
tions — the conduit or pipe-line I may meta- 
phor him, piping Teutonic Hegel and Goethe 
over the ocean into the Mississippi Valley, 
which, it is to be hoped, will finally have its 
own Hegel and Goethe. 
I had read a good deal of Literature be- 



420 A WRITER OF BOOK 8. 

fore this and had even taught it at the Chris- 
tian Brothers ; hut now I turned hack upon it 
with a wholly, new illumination. My class 
began with Julius Caesar^ on which I wrote 
out my first attempt at construing a play of 
Shakespeare, This was followed by an essay 
on the Merchant of Venice, which Harris 
asked for that he might put it into his Journal 
of Speculative Philos.ophy. I gave it to him 
and thus started the line of Shakespearian 
articles in that periodical which ran through 
several years. Then I took As You Like It, 
in which I came upon that peculiar structure 
of quite a number of Shakespeare 's comedies 
which involve a flight to some sort of an ideal 
world from which there is also return. So the 
work went on year after year, till at last I 
had organized in my way total Shakespeare 
and was ready to print it in a book, the first 
bibliographical monument of this Writer of 
Books. 

VI. 

Pakting of the Ways. 

In reference to the practical side of my 
vocation as teacher, I may say that I coursed 
along smoothly on the whole, yet with some 
stormiy ups and downs; my first year was 
the most trying pedagogically, and it was not 
a success in my own opinion. I had to learn 



PART 11^ G OF THE WAYS. 42I 

tbe science of teacliing by experience; direct 
professional training I had none, nor did it 
then have the stress which it has now. The 
greater part of my creative energy went into 
the school, which was also a very vital source 
of instruction to me, in my own development. 
As already premised, I was 'taking a course 
as well as my pupils. 

The school day lasted from nine A. M. till 
half past two P. M., thus occupying about six 
hours, with a short recess at noon. I would 
hasten home quite worn out usually, for I 
poured my energy forth into the recitation; 
then I would partake of a lunch, after which 
I would lie down to my afternoon nap, aver- 
aging two hours about. The family dinner 
took place a little after six o'clock; then 
unless interrupted I would begin my fresh 
new day of work on my own private be- 
hoof, starting at about 8 P. M. and running 
till midnight. During these four hours I 
could bring up my reading and do my writ- 
ing; for instance, i wrote my Shakespeare 
in this way. I allude to the foregoing habit 
of making two days out of one by an interven- 
ing sleep, since this habit, now acquired, has 
accompanied me throughout life, and has be- 
come a second nature to me, with two mental 
sunrises each physical day. Moreover, I be- 
lieve that this same habit has furnished me 



422 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

the power to increase greatly my productive 
output. At any rate I, an old man, am now 
writing this sentence on the stroke of 11 
o'clock P. M., with a fair degree of senescent 
vigor after my customary afternoon nap, still 
keeping up the old double-dayed twenty-four 
hours wrenched from jealous Time during 
the High School decennium. 

The year after my appointment to the 
Assistant-Principalship the chairman of the 
Teachers ' Committee of the School Board 
drove up to my house one evening and gave 
me a surprise by otfering me the position of 
Assistant Superintendent of the St. Louis 
system. I asked for a day's deliberation. 
The more I reflected upon the proposition, the 
more I felt that I had reached in life an 
important Parting of the Ways. If I accepted 
the offer, I would have to give up my teach- 
ing, my work of impartation, which had be- 
come ingrown in my very being and was the 
stimulus as well as the outlet of all that was 
best within me. Moreover I would not have 
the opportunity to carry out my plan for or- 
ganizing all the branches of instruction in a 
universal discipline through the actual experi- 
ence of teaching them, should I give my 
thought to administration. I already knew 
that a great administrator of educational in- 
strumentalities is not necessarily a great edu- 



PARTING OF THE WAYS. 428 

cator, in fact that they represent two different 
and often opposite vocations. The true 
teacher never gives up his immediate con- 
tact with the pupiPs self. So I would be 
compelled to drop my Shakespeare task half 
done, renounce my search after the unity of 
Natural Science, sink my Mental and Moral 
Philosophy slowly into the well of oblivion. I 
shall not do it, was my inner defiant answer to 
the spirit of golden temptation, offering me 
more money, more authority, more honor, 
more fame, with a flattering outlook upon still 
more of these forbidden fruits. Accordingly I 
declined with thanks the proposition. Yea I 
took a step further : I then made up my mind 
that I would never follow a purely administra- 
tive life. I already felt my call to be an organ- 
izer of the thought-world, perchance a Writer 
of Books, though I had as yet written none. 
But many books, hundreds of them, were 
germinating, seething, rioting in my brain, 
like a knotted mass of wriggling animalcules 
hurrying to be born. It seemed that I would 
siji against my own destiny, if I should turn 
administrator, though he of all men wins the 
grand public prizes, getting the chief credit 
(often of the work done by others), the chief 
cash, and quite all the titles of honor con- 
ferred by learned bodies and foreign univer- 
sities. But the thinker must work in silence ; 
he cannot possibly do his task with so much 



424 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

noise about him, especially if it be applause. 
Anyhow such was the road that I with con- 
scious purpose turned down for the rest of 
my years at this Forking of the Ways to which 
I had somewhat suddenly come in the jour- 
ney of life. It is evident that this road was 
the only one along which I could grow my 
crop of printed pages and scatter the leaves 
to small though favoring breezes. 

I may here add a reflection confirmed by 
the observation of a life- time, though I had 
already then seen enough of administration 
to find in it a peculiar element which was and 
has remained distasteful to me. It is a tem- 
porizing, soul-compromising, truth-concealing 
business as conducted after the standards of 
to-day. Not to mince words, the adminis- 
trator in the present condition of things has 
to lie, even when insisting strongly upon 
moral education. Nothing is more shocking 
than the ill name which not a few great Chan- 
cellors of Universities, Presidents of Col- 
leges though Doctors of Divinity, Superin- 
tendents of Schools have acquired for getting 
around strict veracity. Indeed one of the 
chief moral problems of the time is: How 
shall we the People, if not suppress, at least 
tone down the Lie administrative? It is of 
many gradations, starting gently with the 
white Lie, but shading down to ^'et-black. 



PARTUS^ a OF THE WAYS, 425 

through intermediate clouds of gray. We 
might pass the matter by in the commercial 
world as pertaining to Satan ^s Kingdom 
anyhow. But what shall we say to it in the 
educational world whose supreme end is often 
declared to be ethical training? In the play 
of Hamlet the King himself, the fountain of 
justice, is guilty of the crowning injustice, 
when the poet sweeps off the royal transgres- 
sor from the stage of existence in tragic 
passion. But what is to be done, ye Powers, 
when the source and propagator of truth 
lies? Coming back to myself, I could hardly 
•expect that I would be better than these good 
men in a like situation, so there was no other 
course left but to avoid their temptation or 
perchance their necessity. At least it was a 
condition of all my spirit's activity that I 
should preserve my mxoral freedom. I did not 
wish a place in which I might be compelled to 
do or say something which I did not believe. 
I had to set down in writ my honest convic- 
tion, to perform which I must first live a Iffe 
of intellectual integrity. Such was the 
primal condition of becoming a Writer of 
Books; he must be true to himself if he is 
going to transmit any truth whatever. So I 
preferred to feel myself too weak morally 
to become a successful admmistrator. But 
the main reason was I could not bring myself 



426 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

to renounce the idea of transferring and 
transforming the University Brockmeyer into 
an ordered discipline underlying Science, Lit- 
erature and Philosophy. 

A spell of ill-health set in, and, following 
the advice of my physician, I concluded to 
resign my position of Assistant-Principal and 
to teach half a day in the High School with 
corresponding diminution of salary. I sup- 
pose that I tried to do too much with my two 
days in one, and was spending the reserve 
fund of life itself, since the doctor threat- 
ened me : ' ' You will die if you keep this up. ' ' 
So something had to give way: let it be the 
salary. I was then desperately bent upon 
completing the Shakespeare as my first or- 
ganic book, which task would still require 
several years. 

During the vacation of this same year 
(1874) I took a trip with my wife and child 
to the Eastern States for the first time, hav- 
ing never stood on old Colonial ground except 
once — that was when I as a soldier debouched 
into Northwestern Georgia along with the 
army of Rosecrans. Niagara Falls, New 
York City, the Ocean, were witnessed by the 
little domestic trinity with a common delight 
in the new scenes as well as in each other's 
delight — destined to be the last joy of that 
kind in this world. Leaving wife and child at 



PARTING OF THE WAYS. 



427 



the house of my brother in Jersey City for a 
few days, I went on alone to Boston, and 
thence to Concord, the famed philosophic 
abode of Emerson and Alcott, both of whom 
1 had already seen in St. Lonis. 

As I had given some personal financial sup- 
port to Mr. Alcott in his repeated visits to St. 
Louis, and had entertained him at my own 
home, he of course reciprocated. He was a 
vegetarian and abstained from meat; I shall 
never forget the despairing look of my wife 
when he refused to partake of her fine turkey 
at dinner, upon which she had lavished all 
her art in his honor. That was in St. Louis. 
But now in Concord a leg of mutton was 
served up, whereat I protested, saying that 
as he had been a vegetarian in my house, so 
I would be a vegetarian in his, thus paying 
him back in his own Pythagorean coin. But 
the daughter, May Alcott, the artist, then 
living and unmarried, who presided at the 
table, begged me with humorous banter to 
follow her example in defiance of her Tran- 
scendental father and even flung a slice upon 
my plate, which at her bidding had in court- 
esy to vanish. I remember that she somehow 
got to joking about the forty old maids of 
Concord, among whom she reckoned herself 
first, and actually catalogued a number of 
them by name, dilating curiously upon their 



428 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

peculiar freaks in the way of cats, pupies, 
old dresses, sharp tongues and ancestral pedi- 
grees going back to the Mayflower. All this 
humor with its touches of sarcasm I enjoyed, 
but I also took the facts stated as a genuine 
phase of Yankeedom. Still the tenor of the 
talk made me a little uncertain of myself; it 
was in my mind to say (but I did not) : " Per- 
haps you mistake — I am a married man." 

Mr. Alcott took me around to view the not- 
able places of Concord, of which there are 
quite a number — enough to fill a little guide- 
book. We walked over to Walden Pond and 
saw Thoreau's potato-hole and cairn. At 
last he conducted me to the famous cemetery, 
Sleepy Hollow, and we _ wound through its 
j)aths in pensive reminiscence, he always 
uttering a brief ^ dirge over each of its past 
celebrities. Finally he stopped and pointed 
to a grave, speaking atoost in a whisper: 
' ' There reposes Henry Thoreau. ' ' He turned 
about and struck his staff upon a piece of 
greensward at our side, raising his voice to a 
cheerful note : ' ^ Here I shall lie down to rest ; 
I always look upon the spot with satisfac- 
tion." He then pointed to the future resting 
place of Emerson, a few paces distant. 

On the way home Mr. Alcott told me that 
'Mr. Emerson would be over early in the after- 
noon and that they both were going to a pic- 



PARTING OF THE WAYS. 429 

nic. He asked me to accompany them — an 
invitation which I gladly accepted. It was 
not long before Mr. Emerson appeared at 
the Orchard House, with his spare figure and 
smiling face nodding a courteous salutation 
to the stranger. I was introduced to him again 
— for he could hardly be expected to remem- 
ber me from our little colloquy at the Lin- 
dell Hotel more than 'eight years. before — and 
the fact was mentioned by Mr. Alcott that I 
was the author of the articles on Shakespeare 
in the Journal of Speculative Philosophy. At 
once the seer of Concord began to put on his 
quizzical mask — he had evidently glanced at 
the articles as he was interested in Harris' 
venture — and opened the talk in a vein of 
urbane irony: '^Is it not strange that we 
keep finding deeper and deeper meanings in 
Shakespeare, and that we have come to know 
more about his plays than he ever knew him- 
self T' The implied criticism was familiar 
to me, and I had already engaged in many 
sharp skirmishes along the same line. ''Oh, 
yes,'' I replied, ''Shakespeare like Nature 
whom he so completely represents, is con- 
tinually unfolding into fresh meanings, being 
reflected anew in every age, so that he is sure 
to have a line of successive interpreters 
reaching down time, to doomsday, of whom 
I only pretend to be one. Shakespeare, too, 



430 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

is in the process of evolution. ' ' Mr. Emerson 
^spun anotlier thread of doubt with gracious 
/ skepticism: "I marvel, too, that we are now 
discovering for the first time so much archi- 
tecture in Shakespeare who seems to be sim- 
ply pouring out his treasures of poetic quot- 
able lines." Of course I had my answer for 
this, too, as we passed out of the door and 
sauntered down the road toward the scene of 
the festivities which took place on a point of 
land at a fork in the Concord River. The 
party rather bored me (my own fault amid 
so much culture) ; still I laughed with the 
crowd at the distinguished politician. Judge 
E. R. Hoar, when he, determined to stand 
upright in the skiff as if to make a speech, 
while it was paddled, sprawled at full length, 
with one arm in water and hat floating on the 
current — otherwise unwet and unhurt. I was 
glad the two philosophers came along and 
picked me up from a rock on which I was sit- 
ting with a young lady who had been intro- 
duced to me as the writer of ''some of the 
finest idyllic poetry of New England, '^ which, 
unfortunately, I had never heard of, and so 
was racking my brain for a way of flattering 
her with some appearance of truth. The 
thread of conversation was again spun by 
Mr. Emerson as we walked over the monu- 
mented and besung battlefield past the Old 



PARTING OF THE WAYS. 431 

Manse and took our way down the avenue 
homeward. Mr. Alcott had little to say, fillip- 
ing a word now and then into the talk; whilst! 
I, by my replies, sought to stimulate Mr. 
Emerson to jet forth the characteristic and 
often briglitly tinted utterances from the 
inner central well-head of his thinking. 

I must have conversed more than two hours 
with Mr. Emerson, who was in good mood and . 
not in a hurry. The impression left upon me 
was that he deemed our St. Louis movement 
to be on the wrong track generally; indeed 
what else could he believe than that it were 
better for us all to be Emersonians 1 But we 
could not, at least I could not ; a new order of 
thought and fact had begun in the West, a 
new consciousness in which I shared; the Mis- 
sissippi could not be made to flow eastward 
through New England. 

Soon after I had reached home and had 
begun work again in the early fall of 1874, 
my first and greatest sorrow overtook me in 
the death of my wife. We had been married 
seven years, three children had been born to 
us, only one of whom survived their mother 
and is still living. I can truly say that we 
were deeply congenial, and that our wedded 
days were happy from beginning to end. She 
supplied or perchance developed in me a 
strand of existence very needful to me but 



432 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

previously dormant ; her emotional life found 
its best expression in music, especially in 
song, in wliicli the German has so transcend- 
ently given utterance to the most intimate 
pulsations of his heart. Of that melodious 
gift she instinctively partook and made our 
home-life eminently musical. At once I fell 
into line and followed with a new passionate 
fondness for the art, contributing my lesser 
part with a rather meager instrument, the 
tender flute, for the shrill piccolo and the mil- 
itary clatter of horns, which I had so enjoyed 
during my boyhood in the brass band, had to 
be at once put out of the home. Quite a por- 
tion of the musical treasures of the world I 
now learned by actual practice, to be sure in 
a small, but perhaps the most effective way; 
all the standard operas we played together in 
duet (flute and piano) and then would often 
see them on the stage ; for a change we would 
try our hands and -especially our fingers on 
the heaviest classic compositions — the son- 
atas and even portions of the symphonies of 
Beethoven and Mozart and of other less 
famous composers ; Eichard Wagner just then 
rising into vogue amid a most discordant bat- 
tle among the makers of harmony, was not 
neglected. This was certainly a musical edu- 
cation not technical, not learned, but reach- 
ing down to the soul of the art as the attune- 



PARTING OF THE WAYS. 



433 



ment of the very self with its institutional 
environment, in my case specially with the 
Family. I read a little in musical literature, 
studied harmony a little, just enough to catch 
a glimpse of the underlying science of sweet 
sounds ; but, what gave me the widest experi- 
ence, I succeeded in getting permission to 
play as amateur flutist with the orchestra 
of the old Philharmonic Society, and there 
learned to distinguish all the different tim- 
bres of the instruments, as well as the peculiar 
function of each in the orchestral organism, 
which I already sought to philosophize after 
my manner. To be sure the musical experi- 
ence gotten in my native village furnished a 
by no means contemptible starting point. 

But the true discipline of Harmony within 
and without was at home, and the wife cer- 
tainly made herself the center of that, and I 
may say, its living ever-welling embodiment. 
Undoubtedly the more prosaic duties of the 
household — the economies, the care and love 
of the children, the provision for the future 
— were not slighted; they pressed hard at 
times, but were always attuned happily even 
in their mishaps by music, and therein trans- 
figured into something rich and strange. 
All the songs in which the Teutonic folk-soul 
has expressed itself so spontaneously and so 
enduringly were at her command; I heard 

28 



434 A WRITER OF B00K8. 

them sung by her with such inborn sympathy 
that they touched the deepest sources and 
became mine, too. She seemed to tap an un- 
known fountain of my being and set it to 
flowing melodiously in the tones of her voice. 
Even I tried to learn to sing, but with very 
small success; in that field I was born to be 
simply a responsive listener. The folk-song of 
Germany is truly the original basic element 
of its musical greatness ; the people sing 
easily, indeed have to sing, so that they pos- 
sess the true, in fact the only foundation for 
the grand superstructure of a national music. 
All this from the unseen depths welled out 
a human heart toward me in love and song; 
I seemed to quaff fresh notes of harmony 
from the elemental fount of the Teutonic folk- 
soul famous for its songs far back in Roman 
times; thus I was Teutonized in a new and 
wholly unconscious way at hom^e by a dip 
into the ancestral aforetime. 

I should also add that we nearly always 
spoke German together, though she was born 
and schooled in this country, and her English 
flowed easy and without foreign accent. But 
I found a peculiar satisfaction in going back 
to the domestic speech of my forefathers, and 
letting it trill once more through my vocal 
organs after so long disuse. She with her 
woman's instinct observed this bent in me 



PARTING OF THE ^AY8. 435 

from the start, and it was congenial to lier 
not only to gratify it but to call it forth. 
Neither she nor I was aware of the fact at 
the time, but she furnished the fundamental 
element of my Teutonization during these 
years — its emotional life, its Gemiith was 
hers and she imparted it to me through her 
character as well as through her home and 
her musical utterance. On the other hand, I 
was culling consciously during this same time 
the poetic and philosophic bloom of Germany 
with Brockmeyer as chief living interpreter, 
reinforced strongly by the printed pages of 
Goethe and Hegel along with numerous other 
lesser stars of the, Teutonic literary firma- 
ment. Looking backward I now believe that 
this home-life, involving the deepest and the 
strongest emotions of the heart, was the on- 
bearing undercurrent, even if unconscious, of 
my development during these seven domestic 
years, which never again recurred. My re- 
sistless, though secret, impulse was to get 
back somehow into the headwaters of the an- 
cestral stream and move with it into its great 
present evolution which has produced the 
grandest spiritual sunburst of the recent cen- 
turies. I sought to live it over again on the 
banks of the Mississippi, and evolved in my 
small individual way into Goethe and Hegel, 
and more deeply still into the Teutonic folk- 



436 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

soul as expressed in its domestic life and 
speech, as well as in its musical voice. The 
forefathers through migration to a different 
continent, and association with people of a 
different language and institutions, had be- 
come estranged, even if many traces of the 
aforetime remained in the family, from the 
ancestral speech and life, and these I would 
restore by a kind of racial instinct, and in a 
manner recreate and relive as a necessary 
part of my own spirit's unfolding and as well 
as an indispensable condition of its existence. 

Nor should I fail to mention the institu- 
tional training which the new family gave me 
daily ; in it I was sent back to the institution 
which reared me as a child, and which I was 
to make over again as husband and parent; 
I was to produce afresh what produced me. 
It was a training which involved in their 
highest potence the three basic capacities of 
man: feeling, will, and intellect. Thus I 
learned practically to know the primal nurs- 
ing institution of the race, and hence the first 
source of its art, its literature and its social 
organization. Nor can I ever forget the inti- 
mate intercourse with other families, those 
of friends, chiefly German, in which the same 
general spirit reigned. 

Suddenly Fate snipped the thread of this 
interior life and left me in a condition be- 



PARTING OF THE WAYS. 437 

wildered, indeed quite lost for a time. The 
bottom of my little world seemed to drop out, 
1 felt myself to be falling somewhither, but I 
knew not the goal. Intense emotional up- 
heavals within would lash me and dash me 
about in a tempest of fury over which I had 
no control. Then in my turn I became a 
kind of defiant Titan in spirit if not in 
strength, challenging the world-order and 
the superintending Powers. It was an abso- 
lute necessity of my existence or at least of 
my sanity that I should throw tliese inner 
storms outside of me into some form of ex- 
pression, which from time immemorial in 
similar cases has been poetic. So I turned 
again to, or rather was whelmed with 
violence back upon a musical or at least a 
metrical utterance of my outcries for relief 
from the tiger-like emotions which were tear- 
ing me to pieces. In this way they found an 
outlet as well as a kind of control in the meas- 
ured speech of poetry, which had almost 
dropped from my life, refusing to send more 
than a fleeting playful bubble here and there 
from the smooth-flowing equable stream of 
those seven wedded years. Only once during 
this period as far as I now recollect did I feel 
the deepest sources of my being stirred up 
from the bottom and forcing an utterance in 
verse. That was on the death of my first 



438 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

child which left me hymning a dirge within 
and without for many days in strong resur- 
gences after seeming cessation. Still the 
hom^e then soon healed me, and all went on as 
before, quite too harmonious for any need of 
expression. But now the leader is taken, and 
leaves me quite remediless, till Nature and 
Time can slowly work their cure. Meanwhile 
the Muse whirls back upon me with a kind of 
vengeance as if furious from neglect, and will 
not permit me to attend seriously to any 
other voice but hers for many months. These 
lyrics of sorrow continued to gush tip during 
this period from the agitated depths of the 
soul; quite two years passed before I could 
fully recover and readjust myself to the 
changed state of my world inner and outer, 
which gradually brought with it a cessation, 
or rather a transformation of the poetic out- 
flow. At any rate the time came when I had 
to get rid of these brooding verses and put 
them outside of myself by printing fliem — the 
printed page has been and still is my way of 
literary house-cleaning, as well as of freeing 
myself from the chains and claims of a writ- 
ten book. Accordingly the collection of little 
poems called The SouVs Journey appeared 
in small type, and under a disguised title, as 
the author wished to dismiss them, as far as 
possible from his presence. And still they 



PARTING OF THE WAYS. 439 

lingered a spell longer with him, though in 
print. Primarily they threw their small lights 
into a vast dark chasm of personal bereave- 
ment, but they also hint of a deeper separa- 
tion from supernal sources. So they have 
their phase of Titanism, if I dare use such a 
huge word and its thought in this connection. 
On retrospect I can see that many threads 
of existence were then cut atwain remorse- 
lessly by the shears of Fate, as I thought, or, 
as I now think, by the ordering Providence. 
My home-life was closed forever, I becama 
and have remained a wanderer, an expelled 
Adam from that Paradise up to date. Music 
dropped out in a sort of paralysis, never to 
be resumed in its practical phase, though 
theoretically as a listener I have kept in 
desultory touch with it through the fleeting 
years, particularly in the form of the orches- 
tra. The German tongue having no longer 
a domestic support or incentive, also began 
to falter in me and to grow less coercive for 
utterance, my deepest bond with it having 
been broken, though I have kept it alive and 
active, yet no longer predominant. In fine my 
distinctive Teutonic discipline came to an end 
with the unexpected blow under which I 
reeled so long in agony. That part of my 
apprenticeship was over without my consent 
and beyond my power of restoration. 



440 A WRITER OF BOOKS. 

Thus I passed through the experience of 
death severing the closest human ties; the 
father saw his new-horn babe with its mother 
sink into a common grave. It made every 
chord of existence vibrate with pain which 
had to thrill itself out in the attuned word as 
the first reliever of the stricken heart. This 
versified sorrow I thought of dropping from 
the present book as a joyless if not unhealthy 
stage of my mind's life ; but it is a very com- 
mon theme of literature which doubtless 
therein performs its remedial function of fur- 
nishing an expression and thus an outlet to 
pent-up suffering. Moreover I can see that 
these prolonged outbursts in verse responsive 
to trip-hammer strokes within me form an 
epochal turn in my literary career; long will 
the Muse abide with me henceforth as my 
most intimate voice, will accompany me across 
the Ocean on a Europ'ean journey to classic 
lands and there assume a new shape in an 
antique guise, even will insist on coming back 
with me to the banks of the Mississippi and 
piping her notes in various strains along the 
ceaseless and unlistening waters. So I have 
dared to reprint these jets from sorrow's 
fountain, but have stored them away in an 
Appendix where the reader can find them if 
he be curious to trace at first hand this phase 
in the evolution of their composer. 

Such was my greatest Parting of the 



ROUNDED OUT. 44;[ 

Ways, for all time and eternity, far deeper 
in meaning and in result than that first one 
of refusing promotion to the Assistant- 
Superintendency of the Public Schools. For it 
was not subject to my refusal, it lay beyond 
my will, seemingly in the providential realm, 
and fulfilled itself in opposition to my dearest 
hope and desire. Still I can see, looking back 
through more than a third of a century of 
activity between then and now, that it was the 
absolute prerequisite or possibly the fore- 
ordained doom of my becoming freely and 
fully a Writer of Books. 

VII. 

Bounded Out. 

In the year 1877 I felt that many things in 
my life were drawing to a close, that impor- 
tant strands of it were centering together into 
a kind of ganglion or node, which might be 
the end-all of me, or the beginning of some- 
thing else. I have already recorded how my 
deeply anchored home-life was broken up and 
I sent drifting toward some goal as yet not 
discernible; its music had literally vanished, 
and the symbol of it, my soft-voiced flute, 
which from my boyhood had kept playing 
almost daily a low, sweet, reconciling under- 
tone to the ups and downs of the world's war- 



442 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

fare, was cast aside, never to be seriously 
taken np again. My work in the Higli School 
I could see that I had essentially completed, 
that indeed it had completed itself — I having 
given to it what I had to give, and it in turn 
having given to me what it had to give. 
Accordingly I resolved to resign my position 
at the close of this same academic year (1877), 
and to try to take a step outward into another 
dawn of life's larger days. This means that 
I had become aware of a period, rounding it- 
self out in my career, certainly without any 
conscious purpose on my part, but unfolding 
through itself seemingly in its own right. I 
started, however, watching the evolution with 
interest as soon as I distinctly saw it, and did 
not fail to add a little help when I could. 

Moreover I had begun to feel that my long 
pupilage to Brockmeyer was drawing to its 
conclusion. Fully twelve years I had been 
associated as a learner with him, passing 
through the stage of interested acquaintance- 
ship, then of the far deeper studentship (in 
the University Brockmeyer), then of the more 
practical apprenticeship, which was not so 
much a growing into him as out of him to- 
ward my own independent selfhood, especially 
through my work in the High School. On 
my part I was winning my intellectual free- 
dom by teaching and organizing Philosophy, 



ROUNDED OUT. 443 

Science, Literature; while lie on tTie otber 
hand was turning away more and more from 
the spiritual heritage of his race as well as 
from the true bent of his genius into the petty 
ambitions of Missouri politics. He was in- 
deed the chief architect of the new State Con- 
stitution, he was chosen Lieutenant-Governor 
in 1876, and he naturally expected as the just 
reward of his long service to his party, as well 
as of his talents and his experience, the place 
of United States Senator ship. Llis claim 
was probably just which I heard him make: 
*'I was the first public man of the State^lien 
I quit politics in 1880.'' He had to quit, he 
had come to the end of his political string, 
though so well prepared to be national legis- 
lator by his previous work of making both the 
statutory and organic laws of his State. He 
was a doomed man, as a Unionist and a Ger-^ 
man (so he put it), doomed by those whom 
he had helped to liberate, the incoming Con- 
federates, who seized upon both the Senator- 
ships and held them for many years. He, in 
his old age, could not always conceal his 
regret, in spite of his pride, as he looked 
back upon his political life. But those mat- 
ters lie outside of the time and the range of 
the present book. Just now the emphasis is 
to be put upon the fact that I was deflecting 
from his path into my own, taking along of 



444 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

course the fruits of my apprenticeship, at 
least what of them I could- carry. It had be- 
come evident that I took naturally a different 
attitude from his toward mental acquisition,* 
whatever this might be, philosophic, literary, 
scientific; I sought at once to apply it, to 
teach it, to form it or perchance to re-f'orm it 
if I could. Quite unconsciously I began to 
organize a subject, and instruction became 
primarily my means, for I felt I was not giv- 
ing a good lesson unless this were organic. 
Already the fact was manifest to me that 
Brockmeyer would not, or perchance could 
not, organize his disconnected lightning of in- 
sight ; it was going to remain lightning. Still 
I have always to add that if anybody ever in 
this world appreciated organization, it was 
he; but he would not or could not carry his 
appreciation over into creation. The reason 
of such lapse is, in my opinion, that he would 
not apply his years of mid-life, creatively the 
best, to training just this supreme faculty and 
to acquiring its habit; he frittered away the 
noon of his existence, and at sunset he could 
no longer raise the sunken treasure when he 
tried. In his declining days I saw him pain- 
fully laboring at the effort, and even going 
back to his starting point and doing his early 
work over again — in vain, and I could not 
help him. 



ROUNDED OUT. 445 

But the main fact in this rounding out a 
period of life was that I had completed a book 
— my first organic inter-related book, in a 
manner the prelude and type of all that have 
followed — the work on Shakespeare. During 
six years I had thought it, wrought it, taught 
it — my chief business. Word by word, scene 
by scene, act by act, I had weighed and put 
together each play and finally all of them ac- 
cording to principles drawn from them all; 
the sub-group, the group, the division were 
arranged by what seemed to me at least an 
inner order. In the fall of this same year 
(1877) I saw this book through the press, and 
called it The System of the Shakespearian 
Drama, thus emphasizing in the title what I 
regarded as its most important and peculiar 
characteristic. To be sure in an age of cha- 
otic writing such a name called forth many 
a sneer as well as sharp criticism, and was in 
itself a kind of challenge. Still in the second 
edition I changed this title to make it con- 
form better with my other books on the Liter- 
ary Bibles, without, however, changing the 
point of view, which has been so bitterly con- 
tested. At any rate this I deem the beginning 
of my book- writing, though the end of my 
apprenticeship to Brockmeyer, who as he re- 
peatedly told me, intended to make himself a 
Writer of Books even in the woods of War- 



446 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS. 

ren County. But lie never did the deed once 
fully, and so it would almost seem as if I had 
slipped into his place and had carried out his 
career. 

But now I must separate from him spirit- 
ually and spatially, as he was separated from 
me, must get out of St. Louis, get out of 
America, and go back to the original home of 
all this transmitted culture. Another and 
deeper dip into the spirit's genesis it may be 
deemed, far beyond what can be gotten on this 
side of the Ocean. So the New World must 
return to the Old World and live over again 
its birth and evolution. Scarcely is my infant 
book born and swaddled and handed over to 
the nurse when I firmly yet anxiously turn 
face away from it, and start for the Atlantic 
ferry, floating in my mind through the air on 
a magic cloak like Faust, and hearing with a 
little shiver the bodeful, quite spectral whis- 
per : 

IcJi gratulire dir zum neuen Lehenslauf. 



APPENDIX I. 



THE HISTORIC JOHNNY APPLESEED. 

The book mentioned on p. 48, in which I first read 
.about Johnny Appleseed, was doubtless Howe's His- 
torical Collections of Ohio, in its early edition (1846), 
under the head of Richland County. Thus even before 
his death, usually stated to have occurred in 1847, his- 
tory began to take a little note of him as a character 
which had stamped itself upon its environment with 
some degree of permanence. But the most striking 
fact pertaining to the historic Johnny Appleseed is un- 
questionably the following: 

November 8, 1900, in the City of Mansfield, Richland 
County, Ohio, there was dedicated in a public park with 
due ceremonies a monument which bore this inscrip- 
tion: 

In Memory of John Chapman, best known as Johnny 
Appleseed, Pioneer Nurseryman of Richland County, 
from 1810 to 1830. 

So run the v/ords of the inscription, putting certain 
local and temporary limits upon Johnny Appleseed, who, 
one feels like adding, was a kind of universal pioneer 
nurseryman to the whole Northwest, and to its advanc- 
ing civilization, and who had the power of extending his 
name and influence far beyond the bounds of Richland 
County, and even of impressing his work and charac- 
ter upon poetry, art, literature. Two salient facts, how- 
ever, are recorded in marble by the foregoing inscrip- 
tion: the true name of Johnny Appleseed was John 
Chapman, and he lived or rather hovered for twenty 
years (1810-30) around Richland County as the center 
of his operations, which doubtless reached much far- 
ther. But the fact calls up the pivotal query: What was 

(447) 



448 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX I. 

his life before this and then afterwards? He lived 
seventy -two years (1775-1847), as the common account 
tells; hence we find indicated on his monument a 
somewhat settled middle part of his total career, which 
thus begins to suggest in dim outlines three consider- 
able periods of life. This central score of years is, 
therefore, by no means the whole of Johnny Appleseed's 
evolution, but only one stage of it. 

The opening address of the preceding dedication was 
made by General Roeliff Brinkerhoff, an honored soldier 
of the Civil War, a distinguished philanthropist since 
its close, and a public-spirited citizen of Mansfield, full 
of the local stories and facts and the example of Johnny 
Appleseed, of whose memorial he was seemingly the 
chief prompter. A report of this address, with the at- 
tendant ceremonies, is given in the Ohio Archaeological 
and Historical Society Publications, Vol. 9, and reads as 
follows: 

"We have met here today to dedicate a monument to 
one of the earliest and most unselfish of Ohio bene- 
factors. His name was John Chapman, but to the 
pioneers he was everywhere known as Johnny Apple- 
seed. The field of his operations, in Ohio, was mainly 
the valley of the Muskingum River and its tributaries, 
and his mission for the most part was to plant apple 
seeds, in well-located nurseries, in advance of civiliza- 
tion, and to have apple trees ready for planting when, 
the pioneers should appear. He also scattered through 
the forests the seeds of medicinal plants, such as dog- 
fennel, pennyroyal, catnip, hoarhound, rattle-root and 
the like. 

"We hear of him as early as 1806, on the Ohio River, 
with two canoe loads of apple seeds gathered from the 
cider presses of Western Pennsylvania, and with these 
he planted nurseries along the Muskingum River and its 
tributaries. 

"About 1810 he made his headquarters in that part 
of the old County of Rictiland, which is now Ashland, 
in Green Township, and was there for a number of years. 



THE HISTORIC JOHNNY APPLE SEED. 449 

and then he came to Mansfield, where he v/as a familiar 
figure, and a welcome guest in the homes of the early 
pioneers. 

"All the early orchards of Richland County were pro- 
cured from the nurseries of Johnny Appleseed. Within 
the sound of my voice, where I now stand, there are a 
dozen or more trees that we believe are the lineal de- 
scendants of Johnny Appleseed nurseries. In fact, this 
monument is almost within the shadov/ of three of 
them. 

"As civilization advanced, Johnny Appleseed passed 
on to the westward, and, at last, in 1847, he ended his 
career in Indiana and was buried near what is now 
the City of Fort Wayne. In the end he was true to his 
mission of planting nurseries and sowing the seeds of 
medicinal herbs. 

"To the pioneers of Ohio he was an unselfish bene- 
factor, and we are here today to aid in transmitting to 
coming generations our grateful memory of his deeds." 

The same volume contains other important statements. 
John Chapman was born at Springfield, Mass., in 1775. 
Of his early life but little is known as he was reticent 
about himself. It is reported by a half sister who lived 
in Mansfield that he was in his youth a great lover of 
and communer with Nature. His first appearance in 
Ohio is recorded as follows: One day a queer-looking 
craft was seen coming down the river a little above 
Steubenville. It consisted of two canoes lashed together, 
and its crew was one man oddly dressed, who said that 
his name was Chapman and that his cargo consisted 
of sacks of apple seeds, with which he intended to plant 
nurseries. These seeds he had gathered from cider 
mills of Western Pennsylvania. The date of this event 
is not known with exactness, but it is put by the re- 
porter of it about the y.ear 1800. This would imply 
that Johnny was already in the West at the age of 
twenty-five and had begun his peculiar career. An- 
other tradition is that his parents had migrated first to 

29 



450 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX I. 

Pennsylvania and then to Ohio. But the fact here indi- 
cated shows him the solitary wanderer separated from 
his family and almost from civilized life. He was dif- 
ferent from any other emigrant. 

His diet was that of a vegetarian, and many anec- 
dotes are told of his aversion to killing any living thing, 
even a reptile or an insect. He ate of the nuts, fruits 
and berries of Nature, to which must he added some corn 
meal when he could get it. He went barefooted summer 
and winter, often bare-headed and his clothes were very 
rudimentary, his coat being often an old coffee sack 
with holes for head and arms. Here was indeed a 
flight from the conventions of society, carried to the 
extreme. Another main fact was his religion, which 
was that of Swedenborg, and he distributed tracts with 
his seeds. Thus he had reacted against the prevailing 
religious views of New England, had become unortho- 
dox, yet had preserved his devout soul and engrafted it 
with a new faith in humanity and benevolence. He was 
evidently a thorough-going idealist, carrying out his idea 
to the last pinch; a Yankee transcendentalist we may 
deem him, before Transcendentalism, a kind of prelude 
to Thoreau and Alcott and the rest. We have seen him 
in print compared to Thoreau who, however, did not, in 
his flight to Walden, evolve into the benevolent doer, but 
was chiefly occupied with his thoughts and with his pro- 
testing self. 

Concerning the extent of Appleseed's wanderings there 
is no sufficient record, but they must have been far and 
wide. Down the Ohio River and up its northern af- 
fluents seems to have been his first great range, continu- 
ing apparently for ten years and more; he probably 
reached Southern Indiana where his name is known, and 
possibly he may have turned his canoe up the Missis- 
sippi. The address of General Brinkerhoff looks at him 
only from the Mansfield center, including "the valley 
of the Muskingum and its tributaries," but his field 
of planting was much larger. To be sure his legend, 
borne by fresh migrations, has located him in places 



THE HISTORIC JOHNNY APPLESEED. 45]^ 

where he never was. It would seem, however, that he 
did not turn southward, probably from a repugnance to 
slavery. Another important point about him was his 
friendship for and even power over the Indian. He 
belonged indeed to the frontier, to the dividing line 
between civilization and savagery, and he often acted 
as mediator in the fierce border struggle between the 
Whites and the Reds. In case of approaching danger 
he- would carry warning to the exposed cabins of the 
frontiersman, but he never had a v/eapon. It is reported 
on good evidence that "Johnny was fairly educated, well 
read, and was polite and attentive in manner." Indeed 
"his learning" is spoken of by the same reporter. This 
implies that he had unfolded an intellectual side to his 
character. From the same well-informed source comes 
the statement that Johnny had in youth a love affair 
which turned out unfortunate, the girl becoming faith- 
less. The women neighbors of Richland County seem 
to have quizzed him a good deal about the true reason 
for his peculiar way of life; the above brief confession 
is all they could ever wring out of him. Another less 
authentic rumor is that he was actually married, but 
that his young wife, to whom he was deeply attached, 
died, leaving him with a baby daughter, whom he placed 
with relatives, and then he started to wander and to 
plant, in relief of his sorrow. 

Of the death of Johnny Appleseed there is an un- 
usually specific account (same volume as above), result 
of the investigations of the Ohio Historical Society: 
"He died at the home of William Worth, in St. Joseph's 
Township, Allen County, Indiana, March 11, 1847, and 
was buried in David Archer's Graveyard a few miles 
north of Fort Wayne." Very crcumstantial is this, com- 
pared to our knowledge of the rest of Appleseed's life, 
though the industrious investigators could not ascertain 
the exact grave where he lies. But they did report 
upon his last illness in some detail: how on a raw, gusty, 
snowy day of March he started to walk twenty miles 
to look after one of his nurseries, how he took pneu- 



452 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX 1. 

monia, and was given shelter by Mr. Worth, how he 
conducted family worship, reading the Beatitudes, and 
starting with "Blessed are the pure in spirit for theirs 
is the Kingdom of Heaven," how he then prayed "for 
all sorts and conditions of men," with a fervor which 
burned his words for life into the memory of those 
present. Such we must accept as the verified historic 
facts about the final departure and resting-place of 
Johnny Appleseed; but, it may be added, legend points 
out his grave in several other places. An interesting 
picture of the Mansfield monument of Appleseed can be 
seen in the cited volume, surrounded by a group of 
the men who raised it, and to whom the humble 
nurseryman "was not only a hero but a benefactor as 
well, and whose death was in harmony with his blame- 
less, unostentatious life" (words of one of them). 

From the foregoing facts, though rather scattered, it 
is evident that the three-score and twelve years of 
Johnny Appleseed's life naturally drops into three por- 
tions or stages, each of which has its own character 
as well as place in his development. These we may set 
down in the following order: 

(I) 1775-1810. From birth till he locates in Richland 
County. The main fact of this period is his flight to the 
forests of the Wild West from civilization; he evidently 
falls out with the social and religious conditions in 
which he was born and brought up, and flees to the 
borderland of advancing migration, in order to realize 
there his idea of right living by deeds of charity. In 
his way he becomes a Titan, a good, gentle one, pro- 
testing indeed, but not God-defiant and world-storming; 
not brooding over his unfathomable self and writing 
down his thoughts, but silently doing his life-work. 
"He was very reticent about himself," and left no 
record of his experiences inner and outer. Very dif- 
ferent was he from Thoreau and also from Brockmeyer, 
both of whom had their flight from civilization to the 
woods. It would be interesting to know what led 
Appleseed into this peculiar life with its corresponding 



THE HISTORIC JOHNNY APPLE8EED. 453 

world-view, for he was not a crazy man. Love, religion, 
social wrong and other causes may be conjectured, but 
nothing is known. As already indicated, he seems a 
kind of preluding note of Transcendentalism, or of one 
phase of it, suggesting how deeply that movement lay 
in the Puritanic mind. 

(II) 1810-1830. The period of his more or less settled 
residence in Richland County, Ohio. That is, he stops 
his centerless wanderings and has a fixed habitation 
from which undoubtedly he rays out in all directions. 
He civilizes, joining human association, though this be 
on the frontier where he can be a kind of mediator be- 
tween the conflicting races. He becomes known to many 
people and chiefly from here he is transmitted to the 
future as an historic personage, definite in time and 
place. We chronologize him from this second or Mans- 
field period, before and after which he is the wanderer, 
almost spectral, largely fabulous. But he felt impelled 
again to quit the fixed abode of men; something led him 
to a new flight; what it was has not been handed down. 
Not mere restlessness or love of wandering, we say, 
drove him on, otherwise he would not have stayed twenty 
years in one spot practically. He heard his early call 
again, and he followed. 

(III) 1830-1847. This may be regarded as a return to 
his fi.rst stage whereby his life is rounded out to its full- 
ness, winding up in his earthly evanishment. Almost 
nothing is known of his peregrinations during this third 
Period, they are historically as misty as those of his first 
Period. We can surmise that he may have again reached 
the Mississippi and possibly have crossed it. But he 
continued his old task of planting. His method has 
been described as follows: "He generally located his 
nurseries along streams, planted his seeds, surrounded 
the patch with a brush fence, and when the pioneers 
came, Johnny had young fruit trees ready for them." 

The creative power of Johnny Appleseed's spirit is 
seen in the considerable literature of various forms 
•^hich has sprung from his life. Its novelistic character 



454 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX I. 

called forth at an early date a work of fiction entitled, 
"Philip Seymour, or Pioneer Life in Richland County, 
Ohio," by James F. McGaw — the first romancer of the 
Johnny Appleseed series. A good deal of poetry has 
bubbled out of the same source, the best known piece 
probably being that of the famous Lydia Maria Child, 
who in the following two verses has struck out a genuine 
bit of the Appleseed legend: 

Weary travelers, journeying West, 
In the shade of his trees find pleasant rest, 
And often they start in glad surprise 
At the rosy fruit that around them lies. 

And if they inquire whence came such trees. 
Where not a bough once swayed in the breeze, 
The reply still comes as they travel on. 
These trees were planted by Appleseed John. 

This brings us finally to the supreme gift of Johnny 
Appleseed, and the true secret of his genius: It is his 
myth-inspiring power among the people. Wherever he 
went he touched the popular imagination and set it to 
work in story, anecdote, and above all in legend. There 
seemed to be something supernatural in a man who 
would persistently lead such a life, so different from the 
average run of humanity. The result is that around him 
has grown in the West a genuine Mythus created by the 
people and continually putting forth new sprouts; it is 
the Mythus of migration and settlement, with which 
Appleseed moves along in his peculiar way, extending a 
helpful hand to the daring pioneer suddenly as it were 
out of the beyond. "Who planted this little orchard for 
me just here on the savage border?" It seemed a divine 
interposition at the right moment, a God-sent blessing 
which could furnish not only bodily refreshment, but 
faith in Providence. So Johnny Appleseed is fabled to 
be connected with the Supernal Powers which descend 
through him to the earth. Thus he has already become 
largely a mythical hero, ubiquitous and sempiternal, 



THE HISTORIC JOHNNY APPLESEED. 455 

present in all places and times, yet with an historic ker- 
nel, which has been above set forth. His deed in itself 
may be small, but it has shown the power to make itself 
typical, yea universal — a symbol of what all deeds ought 
to be in their essence. 

Was Appleseed gifted with any utterance of himself, 
especially of-his work? It would seem not, as far as the 
record has been transmitted. Still I like to conceive of 
him as having the voice of the Muse, too, touched with 
his own legend, song and poetry. A similar feeling 
throbbed also in the poet Bryant and moved him to 
write the last and best verse of his poem on "The Plant- 
ing of the Apple Tree," the whole of which may have 
been remotely inspired by the story of Appleseed. Here 
is the verse with its curious prophetic forecast: 

"Who planted this old apple-tree?" 
The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say; 
And gazing on its mossy stem. 
The gray-haired man shall answer them; 

"A poet of the land was he," 
Born in the rude but good old times; 
'■ 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, 

On planting the apple-tree." 



APPENDIX II 



CLARENCE 

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONNE: 

Col. De Harrison. Sergeant. 

Clara, Ms daughter. Hoddle. 

Edward, her cousin. Bumble. 

Jean D'Orville. A Countryman. 

Clarence. Followers of the Captain. 

The Captain. Planters. 

Haev/ood. 

ACT I. 

Scene First. — Sea in the distance — Mansion surrounr 
by a small grove. 

Clara, sola. 

Once more with ancient joy the fragrant air, 
Which softly rests among these trees, I breathe, 
And in this grove, o'erarched with mighty limbs, 
And roofed with thickly woven twigs and leaves 
Ceaselessly trembling in the evening wind. 
And darting fitful glimmers 'neath the moon, 
I take my old habitual walk of youth. 
This wood sits like a crown upon the plain. 
And in its umbrage sweet of quiet holds 
The garden and the mansion of my father. 
My bosom swells to see these dear old forms 
Rising so grandly to the starry cope: 
Methinks ye seem to recognize me, too, 

(456) 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 457 

With nodding heads and merry, fluttering leaves, 
The happy child that gamboled at your feet. 
Here, here were spent my days of golden dreams, 
Ere I had felt the tender pang of love. 
Or heard the tread of swiftly-stepping hours. 
Stretch forth your arms, ye mighty oaks of eld, 
Embrace the mossy roof in tender curves 
That fondly hover o'er the sacred pile, 
As if to shield it from the outer world. 
To you a debt of gratitude is due. 
For ye were ever friendly to my race. 
My fathers — ye have seen and known them all; 
Each season ye have spread your lofty tents 
Of moving green for them to rest beneath. 
And on your own heads fell the burning ray. 
Passes into the garden. 
These many colored rows and blooming paths 
Call, too, my childhood back, its hours of joy; 
Here is the flower bed which I called mine. 
Here is the lily which I nursed to growth. 
Alas! the one, unweeded, tells the tale 
Of my long absence and its own neglect; 
The other scarce can raise its sickly face 
Above the fierce and envious grass around. 
Unfeeling 'twas to leave you thus alone! 
Sweet little children of the soil, ye speak 
Of years that never shall be mine again. 

Passes out. 
Where have I been? Those years how have I 

passed? 
My spirit wanders to the distant hills 
Whence I have just arrived, and lingers there 
On many a scene of loveliness and joy. 
dear New England! thou art great and fair! 
How beautiful thy mountains and thy vales! 
But Nature there puts on not robes so gay 
And bright as in my own beloved South, 
Upon this spot would I contented die, 
Nor envy Northern beauty, greatness, worth, 
If one fair spirit of that clime were here 



458 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

To share with me this happy dwelling place. 
Yes, him I grudge the land of ice and snow:. 
That noble form and fiery, daring soul 
Belong npt there; within this bower here 
Should be his home; our double life were thus 
A fiowing stream, a swelling sea of love; 
It were a happiness too deep for thought. 
Oh! God! wherefore thy decree so harsh! 
Oh! Earth! why hast thou cast thyself between 
And torn our hands apart, our hearts asunder! 
But hush! I must be calm; there is no hope. 
He knows not of my love, or else it scorns, 
And thus my first affection, like the rose. 
Which, putting forth its earliest, fairest bud. 
At heart is eaten by the cankerous worm 
Ere it unfolds its leaves unto the sun. 
And falls despairing to the ground and dies: 
So, too, my love is bitten and destroyed 
Before the fruit of wedlock is mature. 
Its corpse I must entomb, and in its stead 
Remains my aged father; — fair return 
It is, I deem; — him shall I nurse and love. 
Till Death shall steal his form from my embrace. 
Such is my duty and such is my desire; 
Thus solace may I find by giving it. 
The dear old man! he wept to see his child, 
And now his child should see him weep no more. 
Here, then, I willing take the virgin vow 
To banish the sweet thought of family. 
The mystic bond of man's and woman's love, 
To live encloistered with this single aim — 
To smooth my father's pathway to the grave. 



Scene Second. — Boats full of men, Claeence as pilot, 

Captain. 
Capt. I grow impatient; is the landing near? 
Clar. A few more lusty strokes and we are •there. 
Capt. Strike fast! I cannot wait; my body frets. 
And like a roweled charger rears with pain; 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 459 

I feel the sword hilt burning in my grasp; 
My smothered nature struggles for the work 
Of death, as for her vital atmosphere. 

Clar. Already we are in the little bay 

Where we shall hide the birth of our emprise; 
This dark recess surrounded by the hills, 
O'erspread with woods and woven thickets deep. 
Secures us from th' approach and gaze of man, 
And can betray no word by us here spoken. 

Capt. Good Clarence, here I take thy faithful hand; 
Thy trust was great; thou hast it well fulfilled 
In bringing us to this most fitting place. 

Clar. I had to pray to thy unwillingness. 

Capt. But now I'm glad I granted thy request, 

And such confession carries double thanks. 

Clar. Peace! Peace! Heave too, my boys! This is the 
spot 
Which first of Southern soil dares you receive 
Into its bosom deep of shade and quietude. 

Fols. Hail! 

Capt. Ha! 'tis the infernal VN^orld! Accursed shore. 
Manured with the lives and souls of men! 
The hellish element I smell already. 

Clar. Our need is action now, speech not at all. 
Distant denunciation of the wrong 
Beyond the stroke of danger was our trade; 
Here wordy weapons will no more avail. 

Capt. Do not prescribe the compass of my speech: 
When I have failed or faltered in the deed 
Is season for reproof. 

Fols. Hail! ho! the land! 

Capt. The land long sought! that which we shall 
redeem 
Or redden with its own foul dragon blood. 

1st Fol. Hurrah for Liberty! 

All Hurrah! 

2d Fol. Her cap must ever be a cartridge box. Raises 
[a cartridge box on the bayonet of a musket. 

All, Hurrah! 



460 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Clar. Another pull! Gruffly she scours the sand. 

Leap to the shore! 
Cax)t. Revenge is nigh at hand. Jumps ashore. 

The first to break this soil, I shall be last 
To print my tracks reversed upon its face; 
Its thirsty pores shall drink my blood like rain 

[the ground. 
Ere it beholds my flight. Strikes his sword into 

Thus shall this land, 
With war and desolation rent and pierced, 
Wail out in bitter, late acknowledgment 
That Man is Man, whate'er may be his race, 
Whate'er the tint that God paints on his skin. 
Disperse now to the wood and seek the shade; 

To his followers. 
Rest there your wearied limbs from heavy toil, 
• You've pulled for many a league the sea-dividing 
oar. 
And we, your chosen leader in this raid. 
Shall find another spot not far away; 
We, too, need sorely counsel and repose. 



Scene Third. — The mansion of De Haerison. 
Enter Col. De Harrison. 
A new star hath risen on my life, 
Scattering joy and peace along its course, 
Dispelling gloom with fair and radiant face; 
My only daughter, whom I have not seen 
Since she has shorn her girlish curls of gold. 
And donned the lengthened dress of womanhood, 
Returns now to the bosom of her father, 
A full-blown flower of fairest dye. 
To deck the way of his descending years. 
My home has now become a home indeed! 
E'en the quick blood of youthful wantonness 
Runs tingling through my veins, and all my 

limbs, 
Beaten so long with strokes of gout and age. 
Move with the new-born ease of little babes. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. ^Ql 

A single sadness darkly crapes my soul; 

She calls forth from the tomb an image dear, 

A form forever lost to me and her, 

My wife, her mother; whom I have bewept 

Till age has slipped upon me unawares: 

Who could but reproduce herself and die. 

This dearly purchased blossom hath now 

bloomed. 
And shows the very picture of its race; 
The easy movement and the gentle grace. 
The modest, coy, yet all-subduing glance. 
An eye that melts the very stones to love. 
That fragile form, are all her mother's gifts. 
The fairest heritage e'er left a maid; 
But Nature not alone has spent its bounty 
To decorate her person with its wealth; 
The nobler qualities of cultured worth, 
The union bright of intellect and feeling. 
The very diamond in the crown of woman, 
And heir to my estate and ancient name. 
And sent her to the best of Northern schools 
To be my worthy representative, 
■» And heir to my estate and ancient fame. 
But long she must not here remain and hide 
Her beauty and desert within these walls; 
A dear companion, worthy of her house. 
And of her love, must be the next choice boon. 
That caps the highest summit of our bliss — 
Here comes Jean. Enter Jean D'Orville. 

Son of my dearest friend 
And worthiest neighbor, welcome to my abode! 
Hither thy visits turn not oft of late. 

Jean. Too oft, by once, at least, I've passed your house. 

Col. Hast thou by any person here been wronged? 

Jean. Yea; I might say I have been foully robbed. 

Col. Name the offender, on the spot he suffers. 

Jean. The theft is not of gold or sensuous stuff, 
Nor is the doer conscious of the deed. 

Col. Surely, thou art not well to-day, Jean. 

Jean. - In truth, much cause have I to be not well. 



4G2 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Coh I traced some illness in thy haggard eyes. 
That erst so full of fire defied the world. 

Jean. But now, a glance has vanquished all^their might. 

Col. Beneath thy random speech some foul disease. 
Doth seem to lurk and carry off thy wits. 

Jean. My mind is not at home, but gone astray; 
Has found a new heart and -will not return. 

Col. What is thy ailment? Enter, rest thyself. 

Jean. 'Tis a complaint most common to young men. 
Though ne'er before my soul hath felt its pangs. 

Col. Tell me, I pray, hast thou been long thus ill? 

Jean. Since yesterday. The attack was sudden, deep, 
A flash it came and left a festering wound. 
Which feasts upon my spirit and my flesh. 

Col. What did the doctor say? Has he been called? 

Jean. Alas! it yields not to the assaults of physic. 

Col. 'Tis pitiful! can I do aught for thee? 

Jean. The magic word to work my cure thou hast. 

Col. The darkness of thy speech bewilders me; 

That robbery of which thou speak'st was strange; 
More strange the sickness which I am to cure. 

Jean. Hast thou ne'er heard of the arrowed god 

Nor felt his shaft in thy warm youthful days? 
Yestreen at dusk along this fleld I roamed; 
Within this garden here, and in the wood, 
I saw an angel walking to and fro. 
Gathering flowers and humming some soft ditty, 
A humming-bird collecting dainty sweets. 
A smile was always sporting o'er her face. 
The messenger of happiness within; 
And ever and anon she spoke aloud 
To some spirit-shape that viewless hovered o'er. 
Then passing out her grot she threw a glance 
That caused my heart to beat against his walls, 
As if he would break out his prison-cell 
To run and greet his bright deliverer. 
Since then I have been faint and deathly sick, 
My lonely sighs have filled the day and night. 
Nor can I charm repose with rosy wings. 
To come and perch upon my feverish brow. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 4^3 

Col. Let thy address be plain and to the point. 

Jean. I shall so speak that in my very words 
The meaning vv^ill as clearly be reflected, 
As the face that looks upon the crystal brook. 
It is thy daughter that hath stolen my mind; 
It flies to her and will not stay by me; 
Nought can I see but her bright darting form, 
V/hich haunts the plastic air where'er I turn. 
This is the malady which thou can'st cure. 
By thy consenting voice, and thou alone. 
O, reach to me I pray, thy daughter's hand. 
And join in promise now her soul to mine! 

Col. Jean, thee have I deemed a noble youth, 
Among our cavaliers thou hast no peer. 
Most willingly I grant my full consent. 
And e'en will help thee with a kindly word. 
But mark! I shall not force my daughter's 

choice; 
No right have I to cast her future life 
Into my moulds against her will; no right 
Have I to give away her happiness. 
Which is her dower granted at her birth. 
Go, the decision she alone can give. 
With her consent, already thou hast mine. 



Scene Fourth. — A wood and a camp in the same. 
Enter Sergeant and Hoddle. 
Ser. Hoddle, here! the Captain wants a fire. 
Hod. Then let him make it and not look to me. 
Ser. What's that! I hope I understood thee not. 
Hod. Thy hope is run aground, I shall not stir. 
Ser. Good Hoddle, go, else thou mayest make me 

wroth! 
Hod. Thy wrath has power over me no longer. 
Ser. Thou saucy cur! dost thou bemock my words — 
Hod. We are all equal now, that's our motto. 
Ser. And disobey the Captain's orders too? 
Hod. Am I not free as you or any other man? 
Can I not have my will, control myself? 



464 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Wherefore should anybody say to me: 
* "Hoddle, do thus, and thus," or "thou shalt not;" 
Henceforth I'll have my rights, I'll serve no 
more. 

Ber. What thought rebellious surges in thy breast, 
And threatens to submerge authority? 

Hod. Ah! wherefore came we o'er the furious sea, 
And risked our lives upon the briny deep; 
It was to free the bondsman of his chains. 
And bring a light unto his darkened mind. 
Therefore, most willingly I joined this band 
To aid the holy work it undertook. 
But first I swear to liberate myself. 
And break the shackles of another's will. 
Which now encompass me and weigh me down. 

Enters Captain. 

Gapt. What, Hoddle, ho! why tarriest thou so long — 

Sergeant, hast thou delivered my commands? 
Ser. To thy summons he refused obedience, 

And grandly talked of freedom and of rights. 

From him by us most wrongfully withheld, 

Which he henceforth would have in spite of us; 

And thus he spake with speech most fair yet 
false. 

Profaning sacred words with slavish tongue. 
Capt. The knave, the villain! he, too, will seek his 
rights. 

And nip the budding promise of our work; 

Meanwhile, the sable slave toils on in death. 

And prays in vain for a deliverer. 

I'll give a lesson to his mutinous tongue, 

And teach a right he ought to've known e'er 
this. Striking him. 
Hod. Oh, my poor back, still swollen with the blows 

Of yesterday, and ridged in painful welts! 

Spare, spare, I pray! O spare thy strokes! I'll go, 

I'll go, and never disobey again. 
Capt. Enough! Now, Sergeant, take him at his word. 

Exit Captain. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 4g5 

/Sfer. Good Hoddle, I have always been thy friend: 
Deeply it grieves my soul to see thee punished, 
More deeply still, to know that thou de- 

served'st it. 
Now go to yonder thicket and gather leaves 
And little twigs to set the fire ablaze; 
Thou hast been in the army, so thou say'st: 
This is the soldier's way to cook his supper. 

Hod. Nothing is known to thee of soldiers' ways. 

Ser. 'Tis true, I never fired a gun; yet know 

That God is with the right, weak though it be — 
But to proceed. If thou wilt pass yon farm- 
house, 
And slyly snatch a fowl both fat and young, 
To be served up before the Captain here. 
It will go far to pacify his ire. 
And to restore thee to thy former favor. 
I, too, shall lend my tongue to help thy suit, 
If thou wilt fetch a second fatted capon. 

Hod. Thy piety is followed by a thief. 

And will be overtaken soon methinks. 

Ser. A little wrong won't hurt when 'tis for right. 
For wrong is right if it is done for right; 
To pat the Devil's shoulder in God's name. 
Is held an ancient Christian privilege. 
But I must bring this prating to a close. 
Go, do the errand which I've mentioned; 
Yet mark, my boy, thine eye keep outward 

turned. 
See all, yet do not let thyself be seen. 
Lest our success perchance, ourselves may perish. 
E'er we have set the fiery ball in motion. 
There are some people in this neighborhood, 
Who fain would prick the bubble but dare not 

touch 
The bombshell. Now be shy, my boy, be shy. 

Exit. 

Hod. Whipped like a dog, treated like a slave; 

And yet they say they came to free the slave; 
I took their words for true, upon my back 



466 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX 11. 

Are stamped in blood the marks of foolish trust; 

An inconsistency that frightens Hell! 

Had I the rooting jaw, the flattened nose, 

The hard laniferous pate, I would have friends 

And sympathy; but now I am o'erborne 

By hate of men, who cherish in their breasts 

A prejudice 'gainst the Caucasian tint, 

And so I have the glorious privilege of a drudge — 

I must be off now, else my bleeding back 

Will weep afresh its rueful tears of blood. 



Scene Fifth. — Followers in Camp, Bumble. 
Bu. Oh, Heaven! wretched me! I am a mighty 

sinner. 
1st Fol. What's the matter, Bumble? 
Bu. I wish I was at home. 

1st Fol. Cursed be that word till the job is done. 
2d Fol. You rue your coming hither, then? 
Bu. O, for the comforts of a mother's care! 

Zd Fol. He cannot do without his mother yet. 
2d Fol. Well, then, we shall have to wean him. 
Bu. This chilly dampness is killing me. 

1st Fol. Then you'll die the death of a martyr to the 

cause. 
2d Fol. A glorious death; that's what we all are seeking. 
Bu. I sought it in the distance, but in the distance 

I want it to stay. Near by it looks too ugly. 
1st Fol. Your words are outrageously profane, sir. 
2d Fol. And disrespectful to this noble enterprise. 
Zd Fol. He is unworthy of our lofty purpose. 
Bu. I see no good which can result from this mad 

chase. 
1st Fol. Are we not doing God's will? 
Bu. It may be His, it is not mine. 
2d Fol. And fighting for the Right. 
Bu. Right; a thing of fancy, nobody ever saw it. 
Zd Fol. Men never bled in a holier cause. 
Bu. It has not come to bleeding yet and I hope it 

won't. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 4^7 

All. Coward! coward. 

1st Fol. Thy spoils should be a rope and limb. 

All. A rope! a rope! 

1st Fol. We'll hiss the traitor out of camp. 

All. Traitor! traitor! 

Zd Fol. The better plan is to throw the wretch into the 

sea. 
All. So be it. Huzzah! To the sea with him! 

Enter Claee]\^ce. 
Clar. Silence! what means this noise and riot here, 

Which warns the foe of his approaching hour? 
Zd Fol. Tear off the honest armor from his side. 
All. Away with him, away! 

Clar. Stop! are ye mad? Hold, here, unhand that man! 
" Know ye the penalty of this rash act? 

An earthquake now is rumbling 'neath your feet, 

fools! and yet ye fight among yourselves. 

Wherefore this sudden frenzy 'gainst your com- 
rade? 
1st Fol. No, no, he's not of us; we own him not. 
2d Fol. He spoke most vilely of our sacred cause, 

And slandered us, to whom it is most dear; 

He will go home, play coward, traitor to the 
Right. 
Clar. Dost thou not see the downy chin of youth. 

And read excuse therein for every word? 
2d Fol. Not we, his own free-will brought him along. 
Clar. His was the impulse of a noble soul 

To help a captive race to cleave its fetters. 
2d Fol. Why does he fly before the work is done? 
Clar. Young are his bones, by hardship yet unsteeled, 

And hence he crouches 'neath the frown of dan- 
ger. 
3(Z Fol. Salt water baths are said to cure weak knees. 
All. Good, good, 'tis true. 
Bu. You all will need to take a bath ere long. 
1st Fol. Hush, forked tongue! 

All. Seize him! Rush to the shore. 

Clar. Hold, hold, I say! Be quiet while I speak. 

This wrangling is the dire, destructive Hell 



468 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Which swallows up yourselves and all your 

hopes. 
Endure a word for this young man, I ask. 
He laid foul epithets upon our cause; 
Such is the charge. It was the f].rst impatience 
At Fortune's halting gait, methinks; no more. 
I might feel thus myself and use vile words; 
But the long trial of my age doth teach 
That oft between the plan and the fulfillment, 
There lies an arduous hill, and this youth, 
Unstable and untried, doth tire in climbing; 
For in the glow of the conceiving thought 
Light Phantasy, that wings the minds of youth, 
May overlook this rugged interval. 
The warm begetting of our dear device 
At first we feel, and then at once we see 
The bright and happy end, but the rough tract 
Which lies between and constitutes the deed, 
Remains to us unknown and unexplored. 

1st Fol. I fear his heart is not with us, else why 
Should he with a reviling tongue berate 
Our holy undertaking, for whose sake 
We're lying here along this dreary coast 
Like shipwrecked strangers on an ocean isle? 

2d Fol. We of this entire nation steeped in sin 

Are come to meet the fiend on his own ground; 
And must we listen to reproaches now, 
Thrown out by one of our own number, too? 

Clar. In firm devotion to our worthy aim 
And hatred to the demon of this soil, 
No one shall me surpass; my zeal is known: 
Who left at home a life of ease and wealth? 
Who steered you hither through the wayless 

deep? 
But on my merits I shall not descant. 
O cease this ugly rancor and this strife 
Which mars the peace and holiness — 
Wherein our boasts are loud — of our good work. 
Wait but a few short hours, ye then will have 
A nobler play at which ye may direct 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 459 

All your superfluous shafts of rage and valor. 
Our enemies are near, these their domains; 
Here are the people whom we came to slay, 
Here are the bondsmen whom we came to free; 
Therefore, lay up your strength for other scenes. 
For you will need it all. Come with me, 
Bumble. Exeunt. 



Scene Sixth. — Enter Clarence and Captain. 

Capt. I have forgotten; Clarence, where's the boat. 
Which cut so bravely through the salty spray 
And bore us boldly here in its embrace, 
Fighting the traitorous wave at every move? 
Hast thou disposed of it in any way? 

Clar. Yonder it lies, moored safely on the beach, 
" Beneath the low o'erhanging foliage 
That lines the ocean with a verdant span 
And views itself in every passing billow; 
This secret spot conceals the craft which thus 
May serve us well again in time of need. 

Capt. I shall not have it so, for then there comes 
A hope that we can flee and still be safe. 
And this may foil our noble enterprise. 
The foolish thought of a secure retreat 
Has often brought defeat upon great armies, 
Which else held surest victory in their grasp; 
And so this boat, peacefully rocking here, 
May make us cowards in the hour of strife. 
When the decision trembles in the scale. 
We must be brave; Despair shall make us brave. 
Straightway I'll go and cut the hawsers loose. 
And give it to the waves to roll away 
Beyond the reach of our retreating steps. [Exit. 

Clar. [Solus'] 'Tis well, perhaps, I scarce shall need 
it more; 
It brought me safely hither o'er the deep; 
Its work for me is done, forever done, 
For a return lies not within my plans. 
Security for her is now the thought 
Which thrills and stirs to action every nerve; 
To save her kindred from the bloody knife, 



470 CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 

Herself from poverty and orphanage, 
T'avert the dreadful strife of warring men, 
Which else might come within her very door, 
I joined this headstrong band and hither came, 
When I had learned their first attack aimed here. 
I feigned the garb of faithfulness and zeal. 
Their cause not to betray, but her preserve. 
0, if the outcome tally with my hope, 
And I restore her fortune and her life, 
'Twill be a token of my burning love 
Whose mute appeal her heart cannot resist, 
Then shall I kneel and look into her face 
And tell the story of my adventurous deed. 
Then shall I press her tender hand in mine 
Nor ever pass beyond her radiant glance. 
O, brightest constellation of the South! 
While thou didst move within our wintry sphere, 
The Heavens glowed with a refulgent splendor, 
And all the land adored pure Beauty's ray. 
Oft have I gazed upon thy beaming face 
And worshipped thee within my deepest soul. 
And felt transfigured at thy heavenly look. 
But hold! my fancy runs before and steals 
The shining prize ere it is reached in deed! 
How shall I find her home? How let her know 
Mine own intent, the danger hanging o'er? 
What envious mountains rise to thwart my 

hopes? 
For ah! my passion is to her unknown. 
This act must prove its fervor and its depth. 
In such conjuncture so it seemeth best: 
Our troop must send a spy to note the land. 
And seek the fittest point to fire the train; 
For this nice service I shall volunteer, 
And none, methinks, can stand against my claim. 
Because I was of late the chosen guide 
To cut a road upon the pathless main. 
Dispatched again and having free my way. 
Soon shall I find the happy hidden spot 
Which holds the fairest rose of this bright clime. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 47I 



ACT II. 

Scene First. — De Harrison's Mansion. 

Enter Col. De Haeeison and Claea. 

Col My daughter, welcome to thy ancient home, 

Which, forest-girt, sits lonely 'mong these hills; 
Thy face shall light anew its darkened halls. 
And cause to sprout afresh its mossy grandeur; 
Or has thy absence blotted out these charms? 

CI. No, father, I deserve not e'en a slight reproach, 

For ever, when I've wandered far away. 
This mansion rose within my mind, and shone 
The star of Hope to which my journey bent; 
And 'round the aged form within these walls 
Have gathered all the wishes of my life. 

Col. O Love, thy sea has ne'er been sounded yet. 

Nor have the depths of woman's heart been 

reached! 
Be queen, my daughter, of this fair abode; 
'Tis all the rank I can confer on thee. 

CI. Enough; I would not change this simple crown, 

Which gives me household rule and care of thee. 
For all the thrones that sway the Eastern world. 

Col. This is the picture of thy mother's mind. 
To be the hidden jewel of her home. 
Nor seek the profane gazes of the world. 
O, since that fair and early bloom was cut, 
And withered 'neath the stroke of mowing Death, 
Joy, with her many-colored fragrant wings, 
From whose light movement blessings strew the 

earth. 
Has flown beyond the journey of my life, 
Nor shaken once her pinions o'er my head. 

CI. O Father! let me be that joy to thee! 

Thy silvered crown I'll deck with roses. 
The emblem bright of thy peace-anchored soul; 
I'll soothe thy v/earied spirit with my song, 
And lean o'er thee to fight off vampire care, 



472 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Whose dainty food's the minds of sad, unhappy- 
men; 
And ne'er shall sorrow with her dark-veiled face 
Again approach thy couch of balmy rest. 
Col. God! the image of my sainted bride 

Has now returned from her sojourn above. 
To cheer me in the lengthening shade of life. 
CI. I see, thy thoughts are in the grassy grave, 

Whose long white finger points above the yews 
That guard the peopled mounds of yonder 

churchyard, 
And join their weeping limbs to shade the sod. 
Tell me, I pray, of my departed mother, 
I know not what it is to have a mother; 
That pious word whose might commands the 

founts 
Which wash in brine the cheeks of human kind, 
Ne'er sweetened with its tender sound my 

breath. 
Tell me her ways, her qualities of mind; 
Show me the dress which she was wont to wear, 
The hat that won thy youthful fantasy; 
Lisp but the accent of her daily speech. 
And I will catch the color of its tone; 
I'll so put on her character and life, 
That thou shalt say. My mother is not dead; 
Her death and burial were a hideous dream. 
Col. Be thine own self, it is enough for me; 

To make such change would be a changeless 

change. 
It pains yet pleases me to speak of her, 
Whom once my youth led to the wreathed altar. 
More blooming than the flowers that loosely 

hung 
With contrast sweet among her glossy tresses. 
Then were our lives as gladsome as the birds 
That greet the first warm peep of merry Spring, 
Warbling out their hearts sitting in the sun. 
But ah! fell Winter, hurried ere his time; 
He froze that bursting rose of womanhood. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 473 

And bleached my locks before the snows of Age 

Had fallen on my sorrow-wrinkled brow. 

0! well I recollect the woful tide: 

December month had chilled our sunny clime, 

Rough Boreas struck us with his frosty wings, 

And snatched away the spirit of thy mother. 

Deep in the smallest hour of night it was, 

I raised thee o'er her bed within my arms. 

To catch her parting glance and final blessing; 

She oped her dying eyes, on thee she cast 

One long, sad, loving look, then fell asleep. 

CI. That dark time comes to me the primal link 

Wherewith my memory starts the chain of life; 
Before that hour I know nought of myself. 
The wistful, farewell-look I still can see; 
And this alone remains to me of her; 
A keepsake which Time can not steal or dim. 

Col. How thou grew'st up the fairest of thy comrades. 
The idol of the slaves, the favorite 
Of all the neighborhood and town, 
I tell thee not. And hence this narrow sphere 
Should not restrain thy universal gifts, 
But thou should'st see the world and know the 

world, 
And nought in chance should fail to have thee 

called 
The worthy daughter of DeHarrison. 
Now thou art come from thy long pilgrimage 
Of travel, study, culture, toilsome ways. 
To shower all thy wealth upon my head; 
Be mistress, then, of these ancestral halls. 
Wherein thy queenly mother erst did reign., 

CI. How oft have I looked to this happy time! 

When far away among white crested hills. 
Or, riding on old ocean's foam-crowned head, 
This sweet, sweet hour was filling all my 

thoughts. 
Here is the long-watched goal, here are the walls, 
Beyond whose bounds ambition stretches not. 



474 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Col. But not forever here with me alone thoud'st 

dwell? 
CI. Such is the sealed purpose of my life. 

Col. Thy will runs counter to the grain of nature; 

'Tis not the daughter's destiny to spend 

Her maiden bloom upon her father's path. 
CI. Mine let it be. I shall not rue my course. 

Col. Youth needs a youthful mate for its embrace. 
CI. Youth needs gray hairs to calm its raging blood. 

Col. Families perish that families arise; 

The filial bond Time soonest rends in twain; 

And so thy love to me must be transferred. 
CI. You seem to hint at aught remote and dark. 

Veil not thy meaning's features from my gaze, 

For thought is worthy of a shining garb; 

Address the comprehension of a maid. 
Col. Thy schooled wit appears not now at home, 

Have twenty summers warmed thy generous 
heart. 

And not brought forth a single germ of love? 

I know the heat of youth, our Southern blood; 

The seal of this hot clime still stamps thy brow; 

Speak! what thou art it is no shame to be. 
CI. Go to, have I not said? Yes, thee I love. 

Col. Such prevarication is a whit unkind; 

It is a charge 'gainst me of foul mistrust; 

Thy love to me is known, I meant it not. 
CI. O, must I then disrobe my secret soul, 

And set its nakedness before thy eyes? 

Its chastity doth shrink beneath a look. 

And tries to hide within its own dark self. 
, I've told the single purpose of my bosom. 

To ease for thee the strokes of smiting age, 

What else lies hidden there I will forget. 

The heart was buried deep within the breast 

To keep more safely all its golden treasures; 

Break not into this holy shrine, I pray. 

Where lie my soul's most sacred offerings. 
Col. Not for the world, my dear; thy will is thine; 

But those entreaties and that traitorous blush, 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 



475 



The secret implication of thy speech, . 
Have darkly answered all my questionings. 
Yet in what safer hiding place think'st thou, 
Could be concealed the secret of thy life, 
Than in the breast of him that gave thee life? 
CI. Thou can'st command my thoughts, my hopes, 

myself; 
Forgive, my duty would I not deny. 
Col. With that stern voice thee shall I never call. 
The low, sweet note of tenderness and love 
Alone, will woo thine ear within these halls. 
I fain would know who won this noble prize. 
For which the world might run in envious 

games; 
What pictured form of man reflects itself 
Upon the crystal clearness of thy heart? 
O, may it be as pure as its surroundings, 
A likeness fair in golden frame of love. 
CI. Thou art the monarch sole of all this realm; 

[Points at Tier hreast. 
Thee there enthroned no rival can depose. 
Col. It is then void; fill up its emptiness. 
Paternal love agrees with conjugal; 
And I would deem thee not a daughter lost. 
But e'en thy spouse a son to me new-born. 
It grieves my mJnd to think thy future lot. 
To see thee resting on an aged trunk. 
Whose sv/ift decay of heart doth near the bark 
Whose bending top looks down and threats the 

grave. 
seek, while it is time, a firmer stock. 
CI. The verdant ivy hugs the fallen oak. 

Reposing e'en in Death upon his breast, 
And twines green wreathes around her spouse's 
corpse. 
Col. Dumb nature shows us what we ought to shun. 

How rough my bed of death the thought would 

make, 
Of dragging down a living heart into the tomb! 
Find speedy prop to hold thy fragile frame. 



476 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

CI. O, heavy burden of two-faced commands! 

O, will that longs to do and not to do! 
My head is cleft, my brain's the seat of war, 
And Thought is trying to destroy itself! 
T'obey and disobey are now alike: 

Duty, thou deservedest not thy fame, 

For oft thou art a cheat and double-tongued; 
Thy fickle breath now bids me stay with father, 
Then lightly whispers: Follow his behest — 

ITurns to Mm. 
Thy will is mine; obedience is my vow. 
Hast thou yet found the sharer of my lot? 
Col. Know once again, thine own free will must 
choose; 
'Tis mere suggestion, no command I give. 
A youth of noble port and gallant mien 

1 know; of gentle ancestry and name 
And disposition martial, proud and brave, 
Yet tender in his feelings as a child; 
Warm-hearted, chivalrous and hospitable: 
Perchance at times a little choleric, 

For in his veins the blood doth course as swift, 
As pure as e'er throbbed through a Southern 

heart. 
Wealth, too, has oped to him her golden purse. 
And poverty can never cross his sill. 
Hast thou yet seen our neighbor D'Orville's son? 
CI. Whom? What's the name? D'Orville? My doom, 

O Heaven — 
But I'll retire to wear off this surprise, 
And mould the phrase t' express my warring 

thoughts. 
Col. Consent, I ask not; soon he will be here, 

Give him an answer from thine own free heart. 



Scene Second. — Camp in the Woods, Captain's Quarter 
Captain, solus. 
So near the goal! O God, we praise thy name! 
And when the great delivering deed is born, 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 477 

Which now is struggling in the womb of 

Thought, 
The ear of Heaven shall weary grow with song, 
With the commingled shouts and anthems loud. 
Of the delivered and the deliverers. 
Oh, may the work be twin to the design; 
And my conception, dark and lone as yet, 
Within the silent chambers of the mind, 
Take on the form of bright reality! 
One bold and hearty stroke! I see the end: 
Success already binds her laurel wreath 
Around my brow, and blows the sounding trump 
To celebrate the triumph of my plan. 
From boyish days this hope has nourished me, 
Else had I perished for the want of food: 
For the spirit proud without the aim externe, 
To call it forth into the world beyond, 
Plays cannibal against its own dear self. 
And with its own tooth gnaws the strings of Life. 
This land shall be a land of freedom now. 
Nor longer shall usurp a lying name. 
Nor wear the painted harlot's gaudy visage. 
Quite far outside, but foulest filth at heart. 
Then can I say I have a Fatherland, 
Then shall I delight to bear its name; 
But as it is, I spurn my native soil. 
As devils do their brimstone bed of woe. 
Rather had I be called a knave, a rogue. 
Or epithet most villainous, than wear 
The damning title of American. 
My hate doth reach the unreasoning elements: 
Earth accursed, made for all mankind. 
Yet seized, stolen, ravished by the few! 
Thou hast been called by the fond name of 

mother, 
'Tis not deserved, thou art unjust, unfair: 
How canst thou let a bondsman tread thy front? 
He is a man too, spurn him as thou may'st. 
Ye mountains, giants springing from the plain. 
That grandly rise and threaten yonder sky, 



478 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Why hide ye not your, lofty brows with shame 

Or sink beneath to your primeval homes, 

At view of this dire damned iniquity? 

But higher still ye seem to raise your heads, 

And smile from base to crown with moving 

green, 
When ye should deluge all the plain with tears 
Of molten snow or summit-dwelling clouds. 
Yea, e'en this air, so light in Northern climes, 
Is heavy here, as if weighed down with chains, 
And sympathetic with the burdened slave. 
This land needs sore the purifier's hand. 
And by the grace of God within these bounds, • 
A tempest of such fury shall I raise. 
That this most foul and filthy stench of wrong 
Shall all be cleansed away, and leave the air 
As pure and sweet as on Creation's day. 
Here from the distant hamlets of the North, 
I've brought a few with zeal akin to mine; 
These are my comrades in this enterprise; 
A precious band who've bound themselves with 

me 
In one unyielding bond of destiny. 
With purpose to redeem the enthralled or die. 

Enter Harwood. 

Good even, Captain! 
Capt. Harwood, 'tis thou? 

Har. Yes, but I do not wish to interrupt 

Capt. Thou can'st not interrupt me — never! Welcome! 
Har. But thou wert holding discourse with thyself 

Upon some weighty point. Let me retire. 
Capt. Tush! must I always coax and baby thee? 

Stay for my sake! I have much on my heart 

To tell thee of. Good Harwood, reach thy hand! 

What thinkest thou? Is not the prospect fair? 

Oh, Futurity! Thy face shines like the sun! 

I feel the crushing joy of hopes fulfilled, 

The which, lifelong, have burned within my 
breast. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 479 

And found till now no egress for their flames. 
To-morrow morning we shall be afield 
Before the sun hath shot a single beam, 
Reaping the harvest of Renown for us, 
Of Right and Justice for the dark oppressed. 

haste your dragging pace, ye lazy Hours! 
Your every moment seems Eternity 

Cast in before my aim to thwart the deed. 

Har. Success! for you, my friend, I hope the best. 

Capt. And why not for thyself? Or has thy zeal 

Which erst was glowing like the torch of day, 
Burnt out to lifeless cinders and to dust? 

Har. No look of mine e'er smiled upon this act. 

Capt. It is too late to croak disaster now. 

Forebodings dark belong before the deed; 
Regret can not reverse the wheels of Time. 

Har. I sought to rein thy spirit; but in vain. 

Capt. The choice was free to thee to stay behind. 

Har. O friend! thou know'st the throbbing of this 
heart 
Beats time unto thy fortune and thy fate. 
For I am so bound up in life with thee. 
That though our reasons often be opposed, 
Our wills are one and can not point apart. 

Capt. I make no charge against thy friendship's proof. 
But lay this cankering fear aside, I pray. 
Which makes thine arm fall nerveless at thy 

side, 
When raised to strike the blow that tells thy 
fate. 

Har. What! fear say'st thou? No, 'tis impossible! 

1 thought thou knew'st me! ingratitude! 
Sharp is thy tooth, and maddening thy sting! 
A coward then, I am? A pretty name 

For one who ran away from peace and ease. 
Forsook a loving mother's downy lap. 
To save his life by hardship and by war. 
Fear, thou art now my trembling pale-faced 

mate ! 
Though thee I falsely deemed my deadliest foe. 



480 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

A sheer poltroon! A vile, knee-knocking knave! 

Fear has become my dearest bosom friend: 

For does he not dwell here within this breast? 

Say rather, I am Fear and Fear is I. 

Hear now a little story of this Fear: 

There was a lovely boy whom scarce ten times 

The earth had borne around her central orb; 

His father's only hope, and pride and joy. 

Alone he lay at night in thoughtless sleep; 

A double tongue of fire leaped from his window, 

In flaming garments soon the house was 

wrapped. 
Who then did enter the red dragon's jaws, 
From his devouring throat did tear thy child? 
Fear, Fear it was, you say, for I am Fear. 
The fairest day was blooming of fair Spring; 
Since then two years have passed the coming 

May; 
A frenzied multitude dams up the streets. 
And loads the air with shouts of "Hang the 

negro thief!" 
Amid that raging, sweltering mass, I still can 

see 
A cowering shape awaiting final doom. 
One man darts quickly through the maddened 

throng, 
He cuts the coil loose from the purpled neck. 
And frees the gyved wrists, then fells in haste 
Some two or three who try to stay the deed, 
. Bears thee away in triumph from the crowd. 
To life and liberty, and to fresh air. 
Who was he? ah! thou knowest him no more; 
Then let me tell. It was — this self-same Fear, 
But for whose quaking hand and quivering 

heart. 
Thy boy had been a heap of urnless ashes. 
Thyself a stinking prey hung up for kites. 
Oh then, henceforth, let me be titled Fear; 
'Tis no disgrace to take his ugly name, 
Who by so many deeds hath shown himself 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 481 

A benefactor both to thee and thine, 
And hence to me a benefactor too. 

Capt. Be calm! thou art my friend, I know it well, 
Thy acts of kindness shall I ne'er forget. 
But why so sharp and fiery are thy words? 
Thy speech is like a red-hot needle point, 
Whose prick doth burn and still whose burn 

doth prick. 
Upon thy courage would I cast no stain; 
Thy gloominess alone I chid. 

Har. The bravest soul hath oft presentiments, 

And darkly views the fitful whims of chance. 

'Tis not the danger to myself I fear; 

Within this scroll of flesh life loosely hangs; 

For any end of duty or of worth, 

I'd fling it from me like a ragged mantle. 

A friendly warning word I wish to speak: 

To free the bondsman is a noble aim, 

Well worth thy hand of steel and heart of fire ; 

But it is good to scan in full the means, 

Lest we pull down the world upon our heads, 

And Sampson-like be buried 'neath the fall. 

Beware! to reach the goal of thy design, 

Thou hast to travel o'er the Nation's corpse, 

Beat out thy Country's inner life, her laws, 

Annul those sacred contracts of her birth. 

Time-honored pledges, pacts and long good will. 

Our anxious fathers' holy legacies. 

Beware! beware! thou strikest at the State, 

Whose right to live transcends the right of all. 

Capt. The State indeed! a figment of the mind. 
To frighten fools and sway the multitude, 
A cunning scheme by politicians framed. 
For their own profit and the people's loss. 
This hellish goblin hath possessed men's minds, 
And made them stand aside and see the Right 
Trodden beneath the master's iron heel. 
The State has ever been the oppresser's friend, 
And Freedom in her struggles with her foe, 
Must never fear to strike, though he be clothed 
31 



482 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

In all the pompous vesture of authority. 

Har. The fault with thee remains. For in our goodly- 
State 
This virtue lies, that any citizen 
May reach the highest rule by peaceful means; 
First, bend to thine own mind the nation's will, 
Then take the reins of power in thy hands; 
So, can'st thou mould to beauteous life thy 
thought. 

Capt. To please the multitude I ne'er was born, 
Nor is't my wish. The barrier to my will, 
Whatever it may be, I shall pull down. 
And be a man untrammeled by the world. 
For only thus my freedom is secure; 
I, I, this individual, am supreme. 
Thou hast consent to leave and go thy way. 

Har. Nay, nay, in spite of all that I have said, 
My heart is still the master of my action. 
And though the head rebels it clings to thee. 

Capt. Well, let us thrust aside this aimless talk. 

Which hurts the quick fulfilment of our work, 
And feast upon the prospect of to-morrow. 

glorious day, which brings the struggle keen. 
Yet sweeter to my soul than all the world, 
For thou shalt tow to port the freighted ship 
Of Hope, that hath till now been tossed at sea; 

1 would not barter for my previous life to- 

morrow, 
O Day! that mak'st the radiant Sun thy heav- 
enly bride. 
And cloth'st the joyous earth in shining garb, 
Bring with thee golden-winged Victory, 
And in her gorgeous train, loud-chanting Fame, 
Nor shall a million throats of the Redeeme(? 
Fail to join the universal shout of praise. 



Scene Thied. — De Harrison's Mansion. 
Claea, Edwaed, Col. De Haeeison. 
Col. Here, Clara, is thy cousin; know'st thou him? 
He's come to greet his childhood's cherished 
mate, 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 483 

Who has so long been lost to him and me. 

CI. What, Edward? Yes, 'tis so: marvelous growth! 

I left thee smooth in face, nor had'st thou passed 
As yet beyond the blooming goal of youth; 
But now a bristly crop conceals the chin. 
And proudly tells the world: Here is a man. 

Ed. Nor has thy lore dried up thy juicy jests. 

Nor quenched in thee a loving maiden mind; 
For beards are bird-lime to young ladies' eyes. 
Catching their glances first, and then their 
hearts. 

CI. I see it well, thou art a trapper bold, 

Who knows his game and lays most cunning 
snares. 

Ed. And thou a wily fox that scents afar 

The huntsman's tricks, and fools the yelping 

hounds. 
But let us stay this duel of our wits. 
And change it for the greeting sweet of friends 
And kindred that have long been separate. 

Col. Her long and grievous furlough has run out. 
Thank God! and she is with us once again. 
Good nephew, say, has painter Youth not tinged 
His fairest rose upon my daughter's cheek? 

Ed. To her more kind is Age than unto thee: 

Already has he furrowed deep thy front. 
And bleached thy locks with never-melting 

frosts. 
— Well, Clara, dear, I'm pleased to see once more 
Thy face lit up here in our sunny clime. 
Long have I daily wished for thy return; 
I could not bear the thought that one I loved 
Should dwell away from this her cloudless home. 
In that most cheerless region of the globe. 

CI. True, Nature here, has shown partiality; 

But there are beauties which we dream not of. 

Ed. Then have I lived to see the icy bear 

Exalted o'er our starry crucifix, 
And that too, by a daughter of the South. 

CI. 'Tis not the happy clime that makes the man, 



484 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Nay, rather say it unmakes more than makes; 
For wealth of Nature or of worldly goods 
Doth ever rot what poverty doth rear. 
Humanity for me hath greater charms 
Than all the gorgeous tints the sun can paint. 
Ed. A sly and secret praise of Yankeedom! 

That lying race of thieves unpunished; 
Whose only thought is cheat — whose God is gain. 
But their deserts I wish not to conceal: 
To them alone, belongs the glory great 
Of decking knavery foul in robes of Heaven, 
So fair, and pure, and holy does it seem. 
One idol more they have: Hypocrisy; 
With veil so dark, and deep, and cunning- 
wrought, 
That many wise men have been led astray. 
To trust its lying oracles and shout 
Through all this land "a God, behold a God!" 
CI. Methinks, dear cousin, that a Southern mist 

O'erspreads thy mind and clouds thy reason's 

sun. 
What some experience hath me taught of them, 
I may declare to thee without offence: 
The people there are great and good and free, 
Attached to liberty and honest life; 
Firmly devoted to their fond ideas, 
But yet sometimes intolerant to those 
Who cannot see the world through their own 

eyes ; 
Strong in belief, yet stronger in assertion, 
And somewhat narrow in their wisdom, too; 
They take the greatest pains to know the right. 
But, knowing it, they push it to extremes. 
And often thrust it quite beyond itself. 
So that its frail and beauteous form is lost. 
One side of things they see both clear and deep. 
And by no other people are surpassed; 
But the obverse side which is quite as real, 
Lies ever hid beyond their vision's reach; 
As if the world might be a fastened coin, 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 4g5 

With one face burnished, seen and read by all. 

The other dark, eternally concealed; 

Thus all their greatness seems a mighty half. 

Vo educate is there the highest end; 

Art, Science, Learning, find with them a home, 

More generous patrons and ardent devotees. 

Than elsewhere in our youthful land; but still, 

Their culture is a huge one-sidedness. 

The people are, withal, great, good and free. 

Col. My daughter, this praise of thine seems over- 
charged. 

Ed. Cursed be the hireling varlets, cursed for aye! 

It is a crouching, false and servile race; 
They load with fetters not the swarthy frame, 
Not foreigners in blood, but their own kin; 
And sell in vilest servitude to gain, 
It may not be their neighbors but themselves. 
Their very name to me's the serpent's hiss. 

Col. Most true, my nephew, and most sharp thy 
speech. 

Ed. Their land, their clime, and their existence e'en, 

I loathe; my aim of life is them to hate; 
The soil on which they tread is tainted foul. 
Scarce that direction can I turn my eye. 
And rather had I southward go to Hell, 
Than through the North pass into Henven's 
gates. 

CI. Thy anger's quite amusing, Cousin dear, 

So great excess must quickly sate itself; 
Thy wrath is like a shallow seething dish, 
The more the heat the sooner is it dry. 
But hear a gentle word from me, I pray: 
Among that folk you deem so bad I've lived. 
And shared their hospitality and care; 
How many friends of mine most true and dear. 
Are in that distant clime, I need not say. 
Their kindness seemed to me the dower of 

Heaven ; 
A noble aim and spotless character . 
The spirits are that hover o'er the land; 



486 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

So must I speak a word in their defense. 

Edward, methinks thou see'st some foggy shape, 

Most huge and frightful, when beheld afar 

In Northern sky, but quickly vanishing 

When once the sun doth ray abroad his light. 

Go live, eat, drink vv^ith them and know their 
life. 
Col. No, no, enough it is thou hast been there; 

I fear I have in thee much to unteach. 
Ed. Sooner would I take the Roman felon's fate, 

Be bagged with snakes and cast into the sea, 

Than housed one night within their viperous 
dens. 
CI. O tell me, whence has come this rancor fell. 

That bloats thy soul with poisonous vengeful 
speech, 

Transforms thy visage to a demon's look? 
Ed. Turned Yankee, eh! turned traitress to thy land 

And blood! Such words as these are wont to 
hang 

Their hardy speaker on the nearest limb. 
CI. Be calm, and tell to me the grievances 

"Whose thought now makes thy heart a bag of 
gall, 

And points thy tongue as sharp as adder's fang; 

Rehearse the cause of this most fearful hate, 

And all the facts with lawyer-like repose. 
Ed. This inquiry appears to me most strange, 

When all the world doth see and shame our 
wrongs ; 

Do they not hither come, t' entice away 

With secret lure, our slaves, our property? 

With what design, think ye? Philanthropy! 

To let them freeze and rot on British soil. 

Deprived of comfort and religious care. 

What venom is not spit upon the South? 

The Press, that monster of a thousand heads. 

Doth bellow daily from his thousand throats 

Most slanderous abuse of us and ours; 

Of our divine and patriarchal institution, 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 437 

Of our society and moral life; 

Emits into our land incitements bold, 

To conflagration, massacre, revolt; 

And e'en the holy ministers of Christ 

Stand ready with uplifted hands 

To bless the murderous deed. It is enough; 

I am prepared to soil my hands with blood, 

To wash our sullied honor of its stain, 

And to, regain our Heaven-born rights. 

Col. Though old, I'll take a musket in the cause, 
Pour out the dregs of my remaining life, 
To reach an end so high and dear to me. 
The more so, for my daughter is not mine. 

CI. pardon me, my cousin and my father, 

My speech was rash, but meant not to offend. 
We have been very often wronged, I know. 
And should demand some satisfaction, too; 
But on the guilty let the burden fall, 
For of our rights we have there many friends, 
So do not lay on all the grievous charge. 

Ed. Nay, nay, methinks the guilt belongs to all. 

Vould that the Atlantic with its watery plains, 
Was cast at once between ourselves and them. 
But that which cuts my heart into the core. 
Is their most foul, most base ingratitude; 
From products which we raise they have grown 

fat. 
And take their consequence among the nations; 
Without our commerce would their cities vast 
Lie waste with grass upon their thoroughfares. 
And only falling pillars mark the sites; 
Their most besotted masses rise and smite 
In hungry might the State and Property, 
• And stretch to us their hands for food and work; 
All this they will not see, but serpent-like, 
They bite the breast that warms their limbs to 
life. 

CI. A weighty case thou makest, I confess. 

Ed. Yet what is worst of all must now be told. 

Their duties in the federative bond 



488 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Which joins in one our civil life and theirs, 

They have most basely shunned and shirked, 

And ta'en therein our choicest rights away. 
Col. Aye, sir, in that remark you hit the white, 

Their wanton acts v/e can no longer brook. 
CI. 'Tis true we have been sorely put to proof. 

Yet Patience never leaves the goodly soul 

But ever waxes with the grov/ing need; 

Time will not always cast on us his frowns. 
Ed. That virtue I desire to be not mine, 

My wish, aye, my demand, is that we part; 

In peace untie the knot with careful hand, 

Or roughly cut it with the whetted sword. 
Col. My age would much prefer the former wise, 

But for the last could v/ield a heavy stroke; 

And my experience has not been so small; 

Upon the drilling ground, and in the camp. 

E'en on the battle field I've had my turn; 

For while a stripling still, to Florida 

I marched against the fierce red forester. 
CI. You would not then disrupt the sacred bond 

Of State our Fathers joined with so much skill 

And anxious thought, and hoped to be eternal? 
Col. Aye, with a vv^illingness that is not feigned. 

Agreement v/as the mother sole, we know, * 

Of this confederation of the States; 

And by agreement can it be dissolved. 

Our greatest statesman showed the right long 
since. 

And Right, though ne'er unsheathed retains its 
brightness; 

With it the Will now locks its striving arms; 

Where Right and Will join hands, the deed 
must follow. 
CI. Men oft create what they dare not destrof . 

The child's life hangs not on the parent's whim; 

So, too, this State begot must live forever; 

What right have ye to take a nation's life? 
Ed. The State has lost its end and is a curse, 

No longer it protects our chartered rights, 



CLARENCE. A DRAMA, 439 

But soon will smite us with its massive hand. 
Its overthrow is now my highest hope, 
So threatening look the omens in the North. 
The reins which once we held in firmest grasp 
Are being hourly twisted from our hands; 
And soon the high-born sons of chivalry 
Must bow the knee before mechanic lords. 
Nay, that disgrace shall never stain our souls, 
E'er long the entire South shall rise and show 
The mighty majesty of wrathful honor, 
Shall seize this often violated pact 
Which chains her bosom pure to loathsome foes 
And shall it rend into a thousand shreds. 



ACT III. 

Scene First. — A Road. 
Enter Hoddle and Couxtryman in the distance. 

Hod. Here comes a native v/eed, I'll lay my head. 

This rank, dank soil alone can bring such forth. 
A very stalk of striding corn he comes. 
Meet him I must. — I might avenge myself, 
By telling now their plans and hiding-place, 
And nip at once their budding enterprise; 
But I shall not; for though they beat my flesh 
Until it falls in black bits from my bones, 
Treason ne'er shall force the entrance to my 

soul. 
But wait! first shall I so confound this fellow, 
By the juggle and displacement of fair words, 
That he will not believe he is himself. 

Co. Good morrow, sir! 

Hod. Good morrow to yourself, sir! 

Co. Young man, thou seem'st a stranger in these 

parts. 

Hod. Therein my seeming tells an honest tale; 
Men often seem to be what they are not; 
My seeming, so it seems, doth then not seem._ 

Co. As full of seams thou art as any quilt; 



490 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Thou art a tailor, lad, if aught of trade, 

Is indicated by thy random talk. 
Hod. Nay, nay, a doctor, if you wish to know; 

For seeming, likewise, is the doctor's trade; 

I come to purge with physic all of you. 
Co. That is a heavy dose for my belief. 

Where are thy pills and dark-compounded stuffs? 
Hod.... Aye, they are lying ready for their work. 

Whene'er I bid them force their self-made way. 
Co. Thy speech is full of dark bewilderment, 

Or else I cannot understand thy tongue. 

Thou play'st with words as the unskilled at 
bowls. 

Not knov/ing where or how the ball may strike. 

Stranger, where is thy home, once more I ask? 
Hod. I am a Southern bold, of gentle blood. 

Who shuns dishonor's stain far more than Death, 
Co. In troth, thou art a funny, funny buck, 

I'd give a dozen ewes to know thy sire; 

It was a rum old sod that nurtured thee. 
Hod. Ha, ha, thou'rt right, quite right; I am a sheep; 

But mark! should e'er I see thy face again, 
■ Thou'lt vievv^ a sheep which is not shorn, but 
shears. 

Longer, friend, I cannot tarry; adieu! Exit. 
Co. A damned mysterious dog; his quiddities 

Are quite enough to break one's head with aches. 

I do not like him; there is something wrong; 

Such nonsense is by far too deep for fools. 

Let's see; — "a sheep that is not shorn, but 
shears;" 

That is, by his own word, a villain bold. 

Disguised beneath a modest mask; 'tis so. 

Two weapons peered out their pocket's priSbn. 

As if their hard, dumb lips desired to speak. 

And send their small, round messengers 

Like pills — I have it now! I have it now! 

A Doctor? aye! a veritable Doctor! 

The musket-ball is that most powerful pill, 

Which finds the shortest way unto the heart; 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. ' 49^ 

Such was the meaning couched beneath his 

cranks. 
How shied his words off from my question's goal! 
And how uneasy was his look and tread! 
Then, too, that bunch of twigs he slyly held 
Within his grasp, what does it mean? I know; 
To set on fire our fences, houses, barns! 
That is his dose of physic for us, I suppose. 
There's somewhat in his looks that speaks of 

foul intent. 
Follow I must; I'll watch with stealth his steps, 
And seek this serpent in his hidden nest. 



Scene Second, — Another Road. 

Enter Bumble. 
Bu. How glad am I t' escape their fiendish claws, 
For fiends they are in all that makes the fiend, 
And if they are soused down quite as they are, 
Into the burning, brimstone element, 
No one could tell them from the oldest demons. 
These mad-caps would have slain me for a word 
Spoke in discouragement of their wild hopes, 
Because I was aweary of their game. 
It was a cunning trick to slip so slyly off: 
I thank you woods, for having hid my path. 
Until it reached a point beyond pursuit. 
Myself again! I breathe more freely now. 
Though they may iterate the whole day long. 
This is a slavish soil and atmosphere; 
They are the slaves, I spit it in their faces. 
That they do sorely need emancipation. 
How clearly do I see in this sad strait, 
'Tis not the outward bond that makes the slave. 
But the base, narrow thought within the man. 
A little vengeance now is in my power. 
My sweat they shall repay with drops of blood, 
'Twill give some solace to my ruffled soul; 
Their plans against this land I shall disclose, 



492 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

And rouse the people to well-timed defence; 
Thus may I send them packing down to Hell. 
Here is the dwelling which I came to sack, 
But now it looks more friendly than my friends; 
It lends a screen 'gainst Heaven's burning eye; 
I must seek rest and shade or else I faint; 
Let fate bring what it may, I shall go in. 



Scene Third. — Planter's Mansion. 

Enter Bumble. 

Bu. Good morrow to this mansion's worthy lord! 
I hope that I do not disturb his peace. 

PI. Good morrow, enter and be welcome here. 

Bu. I would but rest my wearied limbs awhile. 
And catch some draughts of shady air, 
Beneath this roof and bower of woven leaves, 
Old Sol has mounted to his highest throne. 
And rages like a tyrant o'er the world; 
I am not wont to find him in so great a passion. 

PI. Drink off this brimming bowl and slake thy 

thirst. 

Bu. O water! it is a draught the gods might grudge, 

If they are jealous, as is often said, 
To the dry and dusty throats of mortal men. 

PI. Methinks another sun smiled on thy birth 

Else our fierce, fiery charioteer of Heaven 
Would not appear to thee so great a stranger. 

Bu. 'Tis true, my infant lungs breathed cooler air 
Than that which hovers o'er these hills and 
woods. 

PI. I have transgressed, let me entreat thy pardon 

For my offence against thy privilege; 
I did not mean t' inquire thy native soil. 
It was a goodly custom of the olden time. 
That hosts should never ask whence came the 

stranger 
Who lodged beneath their roof, but serve at once 
For him the choicest viands of their board; 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 493 

Thus would I treat thee; but my words had 

lapsed, 
E'er Reason clearly stamped them with her seal. 

Bu. I am unworthy to receive these gifts; 

They bring to mind a harsh comparison 
'Twixt thee and those on whom I have some 
claim. 

PI. No claim for me is higher than the guest's; 

My house is at your disposition, sir. 

Bu. Thy kindness cleaves the fetters of my tongue, 

And bids it speak the secrets of my heart. 
Listen! I'll tell a story for thy good: 
Behind yon wood, and near the sea's broad arm, 
A band of men are hidden in the bush, 
Who threat destruction fell to thee and thine. 

PI. Impossible! whom have I so deeply wronged. 

That he should bring such woe upon my head? 
Nay, thou dost only tell a dreadful tale, 
As seeming pay for hospitality. 

Bu. Forgive, I pray, my crime — I must confess — 

I am of them, and have just left their camp; 
I would no longer serve their bloody cause, 
And told them so; then such a frenzy rose, 
That I could barely 'scape and bring my life. 

PI. Who are they? whence, with what design are 

come? 

Bu. From the far North they've sought this quiet 

coast, 
As favorable to their plan; they say. 
With loud proclaim they come to free the slave, 
And cool the people with a bath of blood. 

PI. Long has this bolt hung threatening in the 

clouds; 
Now has it lit upon our peaceful homes. 
Quick, saddle me my steed! no time for talk; 
I must in haste go seek our neighbors all, 
And sound the sad alarm. Come with me, boy. 



494 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II, 



Scene Fourth. — The Camp. 
Enter Clarence, Captain, Harwood. 

Capt. Now quickly to the bloody work, my boys. 
Each moment that we tarry on this spot, 
Doth swell the hazard of our enterprise, 
Until what once did seem a little hill. 
Shall soon become a mountain in our way. 
- Two plans do show their outlines to mine eye. 
And each makes weighty suit unto my will; 
But when the one I've ta'en, the other shows 
So fair a face that I do rue my choice. 
Throw your advice into the doubtful scale. 
And, put a speedy end to this delay, 
I beg, for restless time keeps spurring on. 
Harwood and Clarence, give me your advice. 
One plan is this: to rush forth from our lair 
Like lions, seize our unsuspecting prey. 
Where'er it may be found throughout this land; 
More cautious does the other counsel seem, 
To spy out first the place and then to strike 
Where 'tis the weakest, and for us the best. 

Clar. My reason speaks most loudly for the last, 
For if we shoot at random in the air, 
We never hit, at most we fright our game, 
Which, being warned, flies off and warns the 

rest. 
But let us first seek out the central point, 
From which we safely can command this land, 
Then dart like lightning forward to the deed. 

Har. To this advice mine own opinion leans. 

Capt. To your united wisdoms I shall yield. 

But who shall take the hazard of this step? 
To this end hearken to my further thought: 
Garbed as a simple wayfarer I'll go. 
And give a stealthy look at every house 
Which may be standing on our future road. 
Survey each dubious nook in which a foe 
Might lurk unseen, or else a friend could hide; 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 495 

Whisper the startling word of liberty. 

Into the ear that hears but curses rude; 

Stir up strong arms to help us for themselves; 

Note the configuration of the land; 

In fine, select a spot by nature strong, 

Which can be fortified still more by art, 

Where we can pitch our permanent abode, 

Which may defy the most perverse attack. 

Har. Nay, nay, dear captain, that will never do; 
Therein thy courage far outspans thy sense. 
Thou knov/'st thou art the head of this grand 

work. 
Which, head once lost, the rest must perish too. 
And we, thy followers, lie in one common grave. 
I pray thee, let me go instead of thee! 

Capt. Is not the peril as great to thee as me? 

Har. True, but my loss would be far less than thine. 

Capt. The greatest danger should the chieftain seek. 

Har. But think! thou might'st be taken by the foe, 
Then, with thy capture, captured ar« we all; 
As with thy death, we all are surely dead. 

Capt. Play not such phantoms wild before thy mind. 
How is it likely that I should be known 
By people here, where I ne'er was before? 

Har. Some jealous accident doth strangle oft 

The mightiest undertakings at their birth; 
Give chance no hold upon thy destiny. 

Capt. Harwood, these monsters lie not in my path, 

Nor can their grim look fright me from my will, 
Else could I ne'er have reached these woody 

dales ; 
And, having thus defied Risk to his teeth. 
Shall I now run before I see his face? 

Har. 1 see you do not understand the case; 

So shall I clothe my speech in plainest garb, 
And show the reason of my importunity. 
Hoddle returned a little while ago, 
Whence he was sent by us; he says he met 
One man, a seeming rustic of the land, 
But yet a man of dark, suspicious look. 



496 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS- -APPENDIX II. 

They spoke and parted; some little time gone by, 
Our Hoddle turns about and sees this man 
Following on his track; 'twas not far hence. 
Ere now he may have found our secret out, 
And sown the news in every neighbor's ear; 
The which may soon bring forth upon our path, 
A bristling crop of frowning enemies; 
Or he may still be lurking in this brush, 
And even listening to our counsel now. 
Then do not go, the venture is too great. 

Capt. No may-be can e'er turn me from my aim. 
Thou playest with these possibilities, 
Most like a little child with soapy bubbles, 
Blowing them off his pipe of clay with glee. 
To see them mount aloft and ride the air, 
That seemeth jealous of their lightness bold, 
And bursts to nought their watery rainbow film. 
A pleasing sport for little folk, but 'tis 
A craft unworthy of a man's estate. 

Har. Then listen to this certainty I pray. 

Bumble has left our camp in secret wrath. 
No one has seen him since he stole away; 
He has, no doubt, deserted to the foe. 

Capt. Ha, ha! this is not certain still, my boy; — 
But it is startling news! The Devil's imp! 
Indeed, he has fulfilled my highest hopes; 
For treachery was written in his down-cast eyes. 
Perchance 'twere best to take our other plan. 

Har. Better by far than that thou go'st, methinks. 
Thy duty bids thee stay upon this spot. 

Clar. Captain, 'tis so; thou should'st remain with 
these; 
But list a moment to my own request: 
I have a plan to solve this knotty point; 
I offer here to go myself, and bring 
All information which you say you need. 
Before the sun hath sped through half the orb 
Which yet remains to him ere day is done, 
I shall return. Till then a patient soul 
Possess ye all. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 497 

Capt. Well said; go, Clarence, dear; 

In thee I have almost as much of faith 
As in myself, which is not small, thou know'st. 



Scene Fifth. — Near De Harrison's Mansion. — Evening. 
Enter D'Orville and Edward De Harrison. 

Ed. D'Orville, hast thou yet seen my cousin Clara, 

And spoke to her about that nice affair? 

D'Or. Ah, I have had that sweet delight and pain. 

Ed. Why, thou art in a melancholy trim; 

Make not wry faces at so bright a sun, 
Thou can'st not put his fervid splendor down. 

D'Or. I see no sun, a cloud hangs o'er my soul. 
And darkly crapes the Future like a bier. 

Ed. Tut, courage, man, thy suit is not yet lost. 

D'Or. Hope is not drowned, but labors in a sea 

In which the waves dash oft above her head; 
Such furious tempest she can't long withstand. 

Ed. Oh, pipe no more this sickly strain, I pray! 

It makes an ugly blot on manhood's page. 
Now tell the facts about your interview; 
I can, perchance, help thee in this rugged way. 

D'Or. Hear then, a story of endeavor vain. 
I sought t' engage her in a little talk. 
About the lands and people she had seen; 
And then t' approach some tender theme, 
That might serve as an outlet to my soul; 
This were the Cupid-winged ship whereon 
I thus might sail into Love's happy port; 
But she, as cognizant of my design. 
Did alway subtly shy the looming point. 
And ran abroad to other things remote; 
Most cleverly she played these shirking cranks. 
Two weary hours she circled round and round, 
And I in hot pursuit sped for the prize. 
When I by the long race became fatigued. 
And so gave up the agonizing chase. 

Ed. Ha, ha! that was a royal hunt in troth. 

D'Or. But stop! here comes a stranger on our path. 



498 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

[Enter Clarence disguised as a pedestrian.'] 

Clar. May I disturb awhile your eager talk? — 
How far is it to the nearest hamlet, pray? 

Ed. Ascend yon little knoll, beyond the wood 

It dots the hillside sloping to the vale; 
Soon you will see the houses; just go on. 

Clar. Will you be pleased to tell its name, I beg? 

Ed. Assuredly! 'tis called Palmettotown. 

Clar. Ha, yes! I know that name. Palmetto town, 
I've heard of it before — Palmetto town — 
I'm glad I am so near Palmetto town. 
lAside.] Within the radius of a furlong hence 
She lives, whose magnet draws me from the 
pole. 

Ed. What sudden joy doth try to burst thy heart, 

Dost thou return home after absence long? 

Clar. Nay, sir, not that. But tell me, if you will. 
What old, majestic mansion 'mong the trees 
Doth yonder sleep, o'er which the aged oaks 
Stand sentinel with loving, watchful look? 

D'Or. It bears a name of highest rank and worth, 
A name nobility might wear with grace, 
If 'twere the custom here — De Harrison. 

Clar. Heavens! De Harrison! in yonder house! 

Fortune, smile on! Indeed, so soon! so near! 
Young man, thy eulogy gives out much warmth. 
Oh, pardon me, it is not far from town. 
You say — just let me see — yes, so it is. 
The day begins to yawn, and now hath stretched 
The drowsy cap of night upon his head; 
I would not wish to find myself alone 
Upon these woody paths without the sun. 
Your pardon, gentlemen, I must be off. 

Ed. God save you from all shadows dire; good night. 

Exit Clar. 

D'Or. He seems to know, yet not to know this spot.* 

Ed. A passing stranger who the village seeks. 

D'Or. Yet how he startled at thy family's name ; 

And then his joy he sought to hide 'neath words. 

Ed. It is not worth the talk. — Here we must part; 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 499 

The dew hath, moistened now the thirsty earth, 
Whose face the whole day long the sun did 

scorch; 
And now the grass doth wash the dusty feet 
Of passing swains with its wet store of wealth. 
D'Orville, courage! 'tis my last word to-night; 
Not the weak heart should hamper the wise will. 
Good night. 
D'Or. Farewell! I'll see thee soon again. Exit Ed. 
Where shall I go, now that I am alone? 
Alas! the heaviest load that burdens men 
Is but themselves; — I'd hurl this hateful pack 
From me, yet, ah, this hateful pack is — I. 
If I could only rid me of myself. 
It were a happiness; but 'tis self-murder. 
And that's a monster, from which mankind re- 
coils. — 
What raging fires are kindled in my flesh 
Which make the fountain of my blood so seethe? 
Is molten iron running through my veins? 
O, Heaven! water! I am burning up! 
My heart has now become a funeral pile 
Whereon I am both offering and offered. 
I wish I were a thousand miles away! 
Hojd, foolish wish, let me recall thee quick; 
It were most mad to go, I'd soon return. 
No longer, ah! do I possess myself, 
My highest freedom has become a slave. 
I wish to God I ne'er had seen her face! 
O, no! the very fancy drives me mad, 
I cannot think of my existence here 
Apart from her; it were a chill blank waste; 
I would impale my life upon my dirk. 
I must turn back, and once again to-night 
Her form I must behold; that view alone 
Can slake the soul-consuming thirst of Love. 
It is her wont to pace her garden late. 
Some hidden overlooking spot I'll find, 
And with the friendly aid of this bright moon 
I shall feast full my eyes with that fair sight. 



500 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 



Scene Sixth. — Night. 

Enter Planters with Bumble before the house of De 
Harrison. 

1st PI. Ho, rouse this house, up, sleep no more, 

Till you can sleep beneath the wings of peace; 

The sword of danger swings above your heads. 
2d PI. Hallo! Awake, De Harrison, awake! 

Murderers, robbers, thieves, are nigh! Hallo! 

Come, help us, quickly, else we all are lost. 

[CoL. DeHarrison appears above at a window.^ 

Col. Here am I! What's the matter? Who are ye'' 
Wherefore have ye come here to fright away 
The timorous wings of sleep from our abode? 

3(Z PI. Thou knowest us, thy neighbors are we all; 

Come forth, we have some news to roil thy blood. 
A villainous gang of cut-throats from the North 
Have landed on our shores to steal our slaves. 
Destroy our property, o'erturn our State; 
We wish to rouse the villagers to arms, 
Come down, thou wast a soldier, head our band. 

CoT. 'Tis strange! Wait, in a moment I am there. 

1st PI. How fair the moon smiles on these bloody 
works! 

2d PI. Methinks she ought to veil her face with clouds. 

Sd PI. Young man, you say you can lead to the spot. 

Bu. Aye, just where they are lying the woods, 

'Tis straight upon this road above the corners. 

Col. [comes out.'] What certain proof have ye of this 
foray? 

1st PI. Here's the youth, of their own number, too, 
Who's told the entire story of their plan. 

Countryman enters funning. 
Co. Arm quickly all this crowd! Why stand ye here 

While your destruction nears? Seize first what 
lies 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 501 

Upon your path to wield against attack; 
An enemy lies in yon woods ensconsed 
Ready to pounce upon his thoughtless prey. 

Col. What ground have ye for all this heavy news? 

Co. I saw a stranger of suspicious mien 

Upon the road; we spoke — his words were dark, 

As if he would conceal some fell design ; 

And so I followed him to find it out. 

I tracked him quickly to a woody lair, 

And hid me in the bush and heard their counsel, 

To-morrow with the lark they will march forth. 

Col. Then follow me; to-night we shall prepare 

To meet them with their own foul terms of 
force. Exeunt all [except Bumble.] 

Bu. These fellows are too hot for my cool blood, 

I think I'd better turn another road, 
For on this one I see but broken heads. Runs off. 



Scene Seventh. 

Enter Clarence in the vicinity of De Harrison's Mansion. 

Clar. The house is darkened and in deep repose. 
Let my dear birdie sleep till morn appears. 
Then shall the shining shield of Phoebus smite 
The drowsy world and bring in life again. 
His beaming fingers gently ope her eyes. 
Heaven forefend her slumber be disturbed! 
Noise in this holy calm were sacrilege; 
Hence, silent shall I bide the coming sun. 
Beneath the bushes and the clambering vines 
Which hug this garden wall of mossy stone. 
Forming a shadow which forbids each glance 
To penetrate its secret bosom dark, 
I shall dispose myself for tranquil rest. 
And listen to the stillness of the sacred night; 
For solitude doth often tinkle in the air. 
Shine on, Diana fair, thou huntress bold, 
That daily put'st to rout the boastful sun. 
Be thou the sweet companion of my watch; 



502 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Let fall thy silvery hair from thy bright head, 
And fill the sleeping earth with quiet light, 
Until thy greater brother whips his steeds 
From out the sea, and mounts with hasty stride 
The eastern convex of the globous sky, 
Bringing captive morn chained to his chariot 
wheels. 

[Clara enters the garden.'} 

CI. What fearful rumors ride upon the air, 

To fright away the beauty of this night! 
Heaven protect my father from all harm. 

Clar. [Aside'] Methinks I hear a voice within -this 
wall. 

CI. How silent and majestic is the hour! 

The wind, aweary of her bootless wail, 
Doth lay herself and sleep with mortal men; 
' The moon hath burnished brightly every star 
That shimmers in her nightly trail of blue. 
As she most queenly sweeps along the sky; 
But ah, the heart shares not dull Nature's rest, 
This lull has brought a storm to many a soul. 

Clar. [AsicZe] Is this a spirit prisoned here that dares 
To tell its sorrows only to the Night? 

CI. The time I last did catch his winsome look. 

Blooms forth the fairest flower of Memory. 

Clar. [Aside] Or is't a maid bewailing to the moon 
Her absent lover and her loved griefs? 
I'll list again, for I would gladly hear 
Such plaints about myself upon this spot. 

CI. [Nears] Oh were my soul disrobed of grievous 

clay. 
And set afloat to mingle with the clouds, 
I'd fly at once to his far Northern home, 
And hovering o'er him as he lies in sleep, 
I'd speak to him in dreams, and tell my love; 
In ringlets round I'd wreathe his heavy hair, 
And plant a kiss on every bit of lips, 
That he would say, methinks, when he awoke. 
The fairy-queen had wooed him all that night. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 503 

Clar. [Aside^ A most sweet fantasy! I must see, too; 

Hearing is not enough for such fair words. 
CI. Oh, Clarence, Clarence, why art thou so far? 

Already our two names are married quite, 

Why should our hearts by space be torn asunder? 
Clar. [Aside] 'Tis she, 'tis she, by Heaven, and me 

she means! 
CI. Oh would that thou wert here, sweet love, with 

me. 

To walk among these flowers and smell their 
breath, 

Conversing all the while about the time 

When first we read our fate in each other's eyes; 

Then we would sit us down and watch the moon, 

And thus would whisper low our mutual love. 
Clar. Accursed wall, thou shalt not bar me out, 

I'd mount thy back tho' it did reach the skies. 

Leaps over. 
CI. What sudden shape here rises on my dreams! 

Help! help! O, Holy Father, save thy child! 

[Claeence throws off his disguise, appears armed and 
kneels.'] 

Clar. 0, noble maid, thou hast no cause for prayer; 
At thy most gracious bidding here am I. 
Oh! stay thy frightened pace awhile and list, 
I am that Clarence, whom thou just didst call. 



[D'Oeville rushes from the opposite side and draws.] 

D'Or. Most villainous of caitiffs, stand, I bid! 

This action here thou must make good by arms. 
It is a deed of which the Devil were ashamed. 
Thus to waylay an unprotected maid. 
I'll tap thy coward heart and draw its blood. 
That ne'er again thou wilt disgrace thyself. 
And so I shall befriend thee 'gainst thy will. 
Defend thyself! I would not steal thy blood. 



504 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 



[Claeence draws, they cross swords.l 

CI. Oh, God, 'tis he! Irushes tetweenl Clarence put 

up thy blade, 
I would not have thee stain its pure chaste glow. 
Its brightness e'en a drop of guilty blood would 
soil. 

Clar. How can I disobey thy first command? 

I shall, sweet love, although the mind rebels; 
My sword was never drawn before in vain. 

CI. tell me, who has brought thee to this spot? 

Thou'rt fallen from Heaven in answer to my 

prayer. 
For thee my daily orisons have long been raised; 
Dear Clarence, is this not a happy dream? 
Think me not bold, I've heard thee call me love. 
Then let me, too, unveil my ready heart. 
And call thee by the thousand names of love. — 
But, whence this hateful contrast of a man. 
That shadow-like doth follow thy dear frame 
And blights our presence here and our free 

tongues? 
Fortune, thou art thine own self's contradiction. 
Uniting the most loved with the most loathed! 
D'Orville, sheathe now thy eager sword, and tell 
Why thou profanest thus my privacy. 

D'Or. Most humble pardon must I beg of thee, 
For this bold, seeming-rude'intrusion here; 
But weigh my motive ere I may be judged. 
As I did lie beneath yon orange tree, 
My fancy feeding on sweet thoughts of thee, 
I saw thy form pass through this garden gate 
And heard thee holding converse with thyself. 
When suddenly this fellow scaled the wall, 
As if to pluck thee off against thy will. 
Or work some horrid shame on thy fair frame; 
Then thy unsullied life I thought to save 
By casting mine before dark danger's tread. 

CI. D'Orville, for this most gallant act of thine. 

To give thee have I naught but grateful thanks; 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 5Q5 

It is a poor return for thy good will; 
And if I had two hearts within this breast, 
One shouldst thou have, so worthy is thy deed; 
But the sad single heart, which pulses here. 
Is mine no more to grant away to thee; 
It hath ta'en lodgment in another's breast. 
And would not for the world forsake its home. 

D'Or. Thou dost not mean this man? 

CI. Aye, him I mean. 

D'Or. Adieu, I shall not mar your happy hours. 

Exit D^Orville. 

CI. How joyous 'tis to peer into thine eyes, 

And see the rippling smiles run o'er thy face, 
By the faint silent light of yonder orb. 

Clar. More joyous still it is to press thy hand 
In mine, and feel the fierce magnetic fire 
Dart through my frame, like lightning in the 

clouds; 
And then to lay thee softly to my breast, 
And hear the secret throbbing of thy heart. 

CI. Sweet Clarence, say, how hast thou hither come? 

Clar. stranger, stranger than the wildest dream! 
But tell me first, dost thou requite my love? 

CI. My chamber nightly did I fill with sobs, 

My eyes held brimming tears at thought of thee, 
For it so seemed I ne'er would see thee more. 
And so my soul v/as always seeking hard 
To quit this hateful flesh, and fly away. 

Clar. O what delight doth snatch my struggling 
breath, 
And choke me with a multitude of sweets! 
This moment's the quintessence of my life! 
What happiness to win the golden prize! 
Thou art a radiant angel of the sky, 
I feel unworthy of thy noble worth; 
Can it be so, art thou then here with me, 
And dost give back brimfull my cup of love? 
Or is it one of Night's fair pleasing cheats? 
Vouchsafe thy milky hand to my hot lips. 
To quench awhile their parching thirst of love. 



506 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

CI. Clarence, be calm; we'll talk no more of love, 

But let our actions to our hearts be tongue. 

Now answer, dear, what I before did ask. 

How did'st thou come to find my nightly haunt? 
Clar. Oh yes, wake me from this bright paradise. 

It is too much delight to long endure; 

I have ill news to mingle with these joys — 

From ' the far North I've tracked the wayless 
main 

To warn thee of th' impending hour of woe; 

A band of men conspire against the homes 

Of thy dear father and thy neighbors here; 

Not far away from this fair spot they lie. 

I am an officer of high command 

And weighty trust; wherefore you see me here. 

Dispatched by them to seek th' attacking point. 
CI. Nay, Clarence, nay, this is not so, methinks; 

You do but jest, you will but frighten me. 

To make my future happiness more keen. 
Clar. In most sad earnestness I speak to thee. 
CI. Oh, what a sudden cloud bedims my sun! 

Could not some peaceful way have led thee here? 

Then were our joy unspotted with a sigh; 

Such ugly wings ne'er brought so bright a bless- 
ing. 

I fain would curse the means, but then I think 

What precious freight was thus to me conveyed. 

And so I'm torn by gladness and by grief. 

Clarence, say once more and then I shall believe; 

Art thou in arms against my native land? 
Clar. My body is in seeming armor wrapped. 

But still my soul doth seek a peaceful aim 

To rescue thee and thine from War's fierce look. 

Flee quickly, with thee bear what well thou 
can'st 

Of goods and jewels rare, but most thyself; 

Wake up the household, and take all along; 

Warn thy old father of this sudden danger; 

Remain until the storm has passed these skies; 

Methinks its rage will very soon be spent. 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 597 

CI. Mine only jewel in the world art thou, 

Thee would I take along and safely keep. 
Clar. That blissful time can not now be for us, 

I quickly must return, my time is out. 
CI. Thou wilt not leave me here alone to fight 

The shadows fell of fancy in the dark? 
Clar. Doth no one dwell within the house but thee? 

My father has gone out to meet the foe. 
Clar. What, is this expedition known to you? 
CI. A band of men left here some time ago 

To summon all the neighborhood to war; 

They chose my father captain of their troop. 

I pray, lift not your hand 'gainst his gray hairs. 
Clar. Nay; nay; — then must I go and tell our men 

To scatter to the winds ere they are caught. 

For treason has divulged their whole design. 

A parting kiss, dear Clara, and I am off. 
CI. Heaven! this affray bodes me much ill. 

Clar. Nay, love, our stars shall join us soon again. 

Adieu. 



Scene Eighth. — Camp. 
Captain, Harwood, Sergeant. 

Capt. Sergeant, see if the men are ready soon; 
The morn is now upon our perilous path. 
And shows us to the eyes of all the world; 
The deed is waiting for our quick decision. 

Exit Sergeant. 

Har. It is most strange that Clarence comes not back ; 
Some hours have passed since that he should be 
here. 

Capt. An accident may have seized him on his way. 

Har. It can not be that treason taints his heart. 

Capt. Thou hast no evidence of such intent? 

Har. No. Still I thought his 'havior often strange. 

Capt. Harwood, again thou art at thy old game; 
Of dark surmises is thy head as full 
As is the bristly porcupine of quills, 
Which thou dart'st forth with every tick of time 



508 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

To sting with doubt the purposes of men. 
Away with all long-faced conjecture now, 
I shall not hear it, I am off to work. 

Enter Sergeant. 

Ser. Here are the men prepared for thy commands. 
Capt. Wiell done, my comrades dear, at such fair hour 

To be in trim for this long day's hot work; 

It shows your zeal in our most holy cause, 

Beyond all power of rhetoric or oath, 

Are ye all ready for the fight? 
All. Aye, aye. 

Capt. To free the bondsmen, or else let the grass 

Upon these fields be both your winding-sheet 

And your uncofRned graves. 
All. So may it be. 

Capt. Then but a word of counsel have I left: 

Keep e'er this bending feather in your eyes. 

Whose snowy whiteness doth embrace my head. 

Enter Sentinel. 

Sen. The foe! the foe'! 

Capt. What dost thou say? 

Sen. A band of armed men are bearing for this spot. 

Capt. O happy, holy hour! Good sentinel! 

Thou bringest joyful news! Now to the work! 
And with the shout of Freedom on our lips. 
Whose echo shall break every servile chain 
Throughout this land and strike oppressors 

mute, 
At them, my braves! They all rush out. 



Scene Ninth. 
Enter Col. De Harrison and Band. 

Col. Halt! yonder are the woods, the traitorous 
woods, 
Which hide within their breast our enemy; 
I shall not long delay your eager hearts; 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 509 

Remember in this struggle that ye fight 

For homes, wives, children, and your honor too. 

Clarence enters at a little distance. 
Clar. What! these are not my friends, i must retreat. 

D'Orville enters. 

D'Or. Halt! rabbit-hearted caitiff, thee I know; 

Thou art a craven spy, unsheathe thy blade; 

We'll end th' encounter which we once began. 
Clar. My sword I'll prove more ready than my tongue. 

And thou, God willing, shalt answer with thy 
life. 

For thy vile, slanderous speech. They fight. 

D'Or. I'm slain, I'm slain, my blood shall be avenged! 

Help! hither friends, vengeance! 

Enter Edward De Harrison with several men. 

Ed. Whose cry is this? 

Upon my soul, 'tis D'Orville, my dear friend; 

Sir, what means this bloody deed? 
Clar. I was assailed. 

Ed. Ha, ha! I recognize thee now; thou art 

A spy, assassin, villain; die on this spot. 

Stahs him. 
Clar. God, my heart is pierced, this is my end; 

Farewell, sweet earth, I leave thee not with joy. 

For on thy front my fairest Clara treads; 

My parting word I scarcely shall fulfill. 

Captain enters with his band. 

Capt. What shape is this? our Clarence, by the gods! 
wretch, art thou the author of this deed? 

Ed. Worm, viper, Devil, I am, and 'tis my boast. 

Come on, thou fiend, I'll hack to gobbets thee 
And ail thy damned crew, and strew your flesh 
To carrion kites and dogs. How dare ye stamp 
Your hellish tracks upon our sacred soil? 



510 A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX II. 

Capt. Slave-monger, go fright thy slaves with empty- 
threats ; 
Not men; I'll cut a mouth within thy heart. 
That it may speak its venom quickly out. 
Set to. They fight, Edward is run through. 

Ed. Alack! So soon the strings of life are cut. 

Capt. Push on, my men, and sweep them from the 
field. 

IThe other side retreats."] 

Col. Stay, hold, here is fresh succor for us now; 

Rush for them, and we'll turn this surging tide. 

So; once again; one more fierce dash, they fly. 
Capt. Old man, the stoutest heart of all thy band 

Thou hast; go back, or else thy hoary head 

Shall tumble from thy shoulders 'neath this 
edge. 
Col. My age demands no mercy at thy hands; 

I have at thee. 
Capt. Thou rash old fool, take that! 

All. Vengeance! De Harrison is slain! Vengeance! 

[The Captain's party retreats. A rush is made 
[toward the Captain. 

Capt. Six rival steeled points at once; I die; 

But ah, than death more bitter is the thought. 
My aim with me doth perish on this spot. — 
Nay, it shall not, it hath an eternal germ. 
Which fertile Time shall nurse and yet mature; 
Some luckier hand shall execute this plan, 
Or e'en a nation arm itself with my design. 

Clara enters. 

CI. What fearful sights are scattered o'er this plain! 

I would return, but no, I am pushed on. 
For I must know my fate in this day's strife. 
Whose form is this? It is my cousin Edward! 
A hardy soul that bravely gave itself away. 
that I could stay by thy side, and wash 



CLARENCE, A DRAMA. 511 

Thy body with my tears, but on I must. — 
Ah, whose white hairs are these? My father's, 

oh! 
Great God! why hast thou not ta'en me along; 
Let me once kiss to life these lips and brow; 
Thy looks are fierce as cast upon the foe; — 
Nay, nay, they're tender, loving as my father's. 
Thy seeless eyes, oh gently let me close. 
My father's shade, forgive ingratitude; 
I must another face now seek with haste. 
If it should chance lie on this bloody field. — 
This is D'Orville, a bold and gallant youth, 
And near him here — O Clarence, Clarence — dead! 
Thou'rt gone, thou'rt fiown, and borne with thee 

my life! 
The dagger which did pierce thy manly breast 
Hath reached my heart. Sinks. 

Enter Haewood. 

Har. Such is the fearful end of this foray. 
I have foreseen it long, for violence. 
Must ever turn upon itself at last, 
And be destroyed by its own bloody hand. 
Captain, sleep well, a dauntless mind thou had'st, 
A soul, which, when it once conceived an aim. 
Without delay must give it birth in deed; 
This was the cursed bane that brought thee here. 
Now, nought to me remains but to the dead 
To pay the final rites, collect the few 
Who yet remain and leave this fatal soil. 



APPENDIX III 



Poems 186^-66. 

Sonnets. 
1. 
Sweet Melancholy! thou hast been my friend! 
Now in the world's wide waste I seem alone; 
Naught do I hear within but sorrow's moan, 
And over me the chilling shades of Night do bend; 
A veil enshrouds my soul I fain would rend. 
Hope in my youthful heart once had her throne, 
But on her glittering pinions now hath flown; 
And man to me no cheerful glance doth lend. 
Bereft of all, to thee in haste I fly, 
And refuge find beneath thy darksome Vv^ings; 
'Tis there I love in dreamy thought to lie, 
And clothe in sable garb all earthly things. 
A friend thou art indeed, one ever nigh! 
Who with a shadowy love around me clings. 



When Sleep my wearied limbs hath laid in rest. 
And Sense no more doth goad me with his greed. 
Then Fancy, from this chilly clay-cage freed, 
Creates new forms, in brightest colors dress'd. 
And roams the world, of beauteous dreams in quest. 
Upon her golden wings far hence I speed, 
The form of angels is my happy meed, 
I swim the fringed clouds with raptur'd zest. 
In yon deep dome of Heaven's blue, 
Where gather spirits, parted here below. 
And swear to Love, to be forever true, 
I meet thee, smiling with the Moon's chaste glow, 

My vows in haste I joyfully renew, 
And sail with thee around the azure bow. 



(512) 



POEMS— lS6Jf-lS66. 5]^3 

3. 

When far away me leads the fell unrest of men, 
And thy chaste form, bright mirror of the soul, 
As fleecy folds of heaven far oft do roll. 
Grows dim and white in memory's faithless ken. 
Perchance in dreams of deepest night I see, 
A face full oft by me beheld before, 
Upon whose beauty ripple smiles of yore. 
Reflecting sunny beams of love and glee. 

I grasp with joyous tears the ready hand, 
My thirsty soul drinks deep from glowing eyes, 

I gaze upon the lovely form and grand: 
And when from morn's dull dreary cot I rise, 
I swear, whate'er may be the time or land 
My heart with thee shall dwell, till in the skies. 



Already have I felt my heart to sink away. 

Although I thought it propped with firmest will. 
But now a bosom that erewhile was chill, 
Begins to swell beneath the warming ray. 
As when the bud that tips the leafless spray, 
What time the Frost hath curdled every rill. 
And lined with heavy fringe the mead, wood, hill, 
Doth hide within its husk and shun the day: 

But if sweet Springtide doth once more embrace. 
And loosen from their frozen bonds the earth -and 
sky, 
Then Nature spreads anew her joyous race, 
And seems her old oppressor to defy; 

The bud bursts forth and shows its blooming face. 
Nor longer can the loving suit deny. 



Full oft a face that hath a beauteous glow. 

And blooms with looks so lightsome, gay and trim. 
Wherein the smiling Goddess seems to swim, — 

A form that doth in lines of Beauty flow, 
33 



514 A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 

I've seen before my Avistful gazes go, — 
A lovely vision, in its fleetness dim, 
Shot through the viewless air doth darkly skim; 
I see a glory, more I cannot know. 

When in the eve we look upon the star-robed sky, 
And watch the planets that above us roll, 

'Tis thus the bright-winged Hours appear to fly, 
And leave behind my longing, loving soul. 

For scarce have I beheld thy gentle eye, 
I must be gone — the midnight bell doth toll. 



When I am come from sweetest talk with thee. 
And still a face, not beautiful, but bright. 
That seems a wreath of smiles and darling light, 

In purest mould of Phantasy I see, 

I love to think the glad Futurity. 

Then we no more shall have to say, "Good Night, 
The vow is taken, finished is the rite — 

Two shapes, one soul, we must forever be, 

A little image of thyself and me. 
Doth ope its longing, new-born eyes, 

And hails the world with deep, but speechless glee. 
Bringing a soul fresh christened from the skies, 

Alas! 'tis all a dream, a waking dream. 

Things must far other be than what they seem. 



To-night I thought to say — "I come no more. 
To-night this joyousness of ours must end, 
To-night a parting sigh I to thee send, 

A sweeter, sadder sigh than all before. 

For to that holy height I durst not soar. 

But deign, I pray, to call me still a friend, 
And fate may yet its iron bow unbend, 

And we may love again as once of yore." 
But as I enter at the parlor door 



POEMS— 186/rJR66. 515 

Two eyes come dancing to me through the air 
My name I hear! it sounds like music rare 

That in my soul a mighty strain doth pour. 
Gone is my Will, my Sense is blurred and blent, 
And reason lies despoiled of her intent. 



As I was passing by the green trimmed doo' , 
My heart did overflow with one sweet thought, 
When once within that bower I had sought 

And pressed a hand in mine which I adore; 

A deed so bold I ne'er had dared before: 
Through me there ran a thrill of ecstacy, 
Sudden as lightning when it streaks the sky, 

A waterfall of joy into my soul did pour. 
I gazed all silent in her steadfast eye, 

Wherein there seemed to gush a modest tear. 
And through the air a half-suppressed sigh 

Did waft the sweetest token to mine ear, 
Gently her head reclined upon my breast, 
My trembling lips to hers I softly pressed. 

9. 

I know that Jealousy hath oft been deemed, 

The fierce handmaid that waits upon meek Love, — 
A raging tigress coupled with the dove, — 
'Tis true, though idle minds may else have dreamed, 
For late her flaming eyeballs on me gleamed. 
One eve I chanced the way to pass along, 
I hear a well-known voice in quiet song. 
Whose notes the music of the brooklet seemed. 
Oh God! what other voice is that I hear, 
More bitter, hateful than the knell of death! 

'Tis he who most of all has caused me fear; — 
With her henceforth no more, whilst I have breath- 
Love bears no rival in his iron sway, 
Love takes the whole, or throws the whole away. 



516 A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 

10. 

Already had I felt a little weaned. 

From that fair presence which was once my life; 
Past was the fierce unrest of mental strife, 
Which tore the heart most like a hellish fiend. 
And to overthrow firm-handed Reason seemed. 
To me a marvel deep it did appear, 
The arrowed God should droop so soon with fear, 
Whose waving bow erewhile triumphant gleamed. 
One day I pass before a certain door, 
Comes forth a face of care which seems to wait. 

And speaks in sweeter tones than e'er of yore, 
"I have been looking for thee oft of late." 
My bosom melts like frost beneath the sun, 
I had resolved, — ^but all is now undone. 

11. 

Bleak was the blast that brought this new December, 
Old Boreas the while hath reigned supreme, 
The icy-fringed Frost from the eaves doth gleam, 
The Birds are flown, or songs no more remember; 
Hushed is the brooklet with its murmur tender; 
The Earth hath donned her mailed armor white, 
With Winter grim lies ready for the fight. 
Who howls as if he would in morsels rend her. 
Chill was the season, yet my life more chill, 
And inwardly could I nought but grieve. 

For she did seem to think of me some ill. 
But now from these dark thoughts I have reprieve; 

To-day she said, with looks that haunt me still, 
"Come meet me here, I pray, to-morrow eve." 

12. 

I mount a golden chariot to the skies, 

Whose airy way cuts through the high blue dome, 
Among yon violet fields my team doth roam, 

While clouds beneath the wheels around me rise. 



POEMS--1S64-18G6'. 517 

And dull dead Earth far off in darkness lies. 

The curbless steeds toss high their silvery manes, 
Their pearly hoofs do chafe the ethereal plains. 
Most like those winners old of the Olympic prize. 

But not alone across those regions dim 
I buffet, in the storm-girt home of space. 

But thou art with me and the hymn 
We hear that planets sing in starry race, 

One arm around thy form to press I seem, 

The other rules the Heaven-scaling team. 

13. 

The book is opened, and my work begun. 
To cease a dreaming is my firm resolve, 
Why should I waste the day, my mind involve, 
With fancies that before me ever run, 
A mirage that escapes ere it is won? 

Beyond these lowly realms of earthly kings, 
My search shall be for other, higher things. 
Where thought is monarch 'neath the royal sun. 
I seize the volume with strong-purposed hand, 
And trace a line or two upon the page, 

But soon my soul is hovering o'er the strand. 
Where last we stood and watched the wild waves' rage, 
TT-rom thee one look for me hath more command 
Than all my fixed resolves or maxims sage. 

14. 

I sometimes sit me down in silent thought. 
To rear the shapes of mighty men of old. 
The Sage, the Poet, and the Warrior bold. 

The Statesnian pure and Patriot unbought, 

All those who were by their pure nature taught 
To shun the Base, the Truth with might t'uphold; 
Of whom such high and shining deeds are told. 

That now our age but vileness seemeth nought. 

While these hoar forms are passing through my 
brain. 



518 A WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX III. 

In movements stately and in look most grave, 
A modern shape doth mingle in the train, 

Before, behind, between so blithe and brave. 
To drive that image off, I try in vain. 
For thought once free doth bring it back again. 

15. 

The storm beats loud against my window-glass, 
The horrid Night hath blotted out each star. 
And Ether rolls in elemental war; 

The feathery snowflakes darkly glimmering, pass 

In wild procession down to that white mass 
Which lies beneath and hides both vale and grove: 
A garment that for Winter bleak is wove 

And spread o'er Summer's foliage and grass. 
As I look out into that whirling dance 
And listen to the storm-god's dreary moan,— 
Thou quittest me — I seem in hazy trance 
To rise aloft upon his windy throne; 

Off fly the wayward blasts in scornful prance, 
And I the storm reverberate alone. 

16. 

The Christmas tree is lit, the top is crowned 
With bright blue lamps that richest jewels seem. 
The many-colored glassy bells do gleam, 
And twinkle through the leaves in stilly sound; 
With merriment the children leap around, 
The brimming eye shows joy too deep for speech. 
The old folks strive in thought far back to reach 
The time when they such youthful pleasures found. 
And sigh to think how soon these earthly things. 
They are to leave and lie within the grave. 

Not grief which in the aged bosom springs, 
I feel, nor joy with which the youngsters rave; 

I see a face which deeper feelings brings 
Thau all delights or pains that Life e'er gave. 



POEMS~1864-1866. 5^9 



Love's Fantasia. 

The Star of Day hath sunk to rest, 

It gilds no more the mountain crest, 

The last-departing ray with glee 

Hath sought its Home beneath the sea. 

Aloft the Maiden of the Night 

Doth fill the world with silent light; 

She mounts yon arch of azure hue. 

Her path is through the skyey blue. 

I gaze upon her tresses bright, 

Of fleecy clouds begirt with light; 

Round her they fall so soft, so fair. 

They seem of the translucent air. 

1 think of Home, the bliss of Love, 

I dream of shining realms above, 

Bright beings flit before my eyes, 

A thousand Angels sweep the skies. 

But hist! what ravishment I hear? 

What symphonies do pierce mine ear? 

A distant music softly greets, 

And loads the air with sounding sweets. 

On magic plumes it wafts anew. 

Its breath is fresh with falling dew, 

It hails the Maid — I hear it say, 

While perched upon a slanting ray — 

"Chaste Moon! I love thy eyes so bright, 

That shed such tears of joyous light, 

I love thy face so shining fair. 

With golden tresses of thy hair. 

"'I love thy form so full of grace. 

As thoii dost urge thy starry race; 

At first a full-eyed orb of sheen, 

And then a bow, and then unseen, 

"Full oft by night away I flee, 

To revel in the air with thee, 

I soft attune my stilly song. 

While moonbeams dance in mazy throng. 



520 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 

"Oh look not down with glances chill, 

My heart with hope is quivering still; 

Say, gentle Huntress, Maid divine, 

May I not boldly call thee mine?" 

Her lily cheeks flushed at such praise, 

But she at once cuts off her rays. 

And hastens with a quicker pace, 

To plunge beneath the clouds her face. 

Behind her screen awhile beguiling, 

With looks so coy, and lips so smiling, 

Out in the blue again she hies. 

And thus right maidenly replies: — 

"Sweet Music! not alone I see 

Have I been languishing for thee; 

Each night I shoot my beams beneath 

To catch the fragrance of thy breath. 

"I love to ride thy rolling wave. 

That swells to Heaven's architrave; 

I love thy voice so sweetly soft 

That whispers to my soul so oft. 

"Thy form I do not see, I ween, 

I hold it more than if 'twas seen; 

Those notes that o'er the world do smile 

I know can come from nothing vile. 

"In thy embraces oft I've lain, 

I've heard the welkin ring thy strain. 

Oh fairy son of Air! be mine. 

Then mayst thou boldly call me thine." 

She darts a shower of amorous rays, 

"While music chants in loving lays; 

They march along, shining and singing, 

And the Heavens above are lightning and ringing. 

They glide down the arch of the concave deep. 

Behind the hills they slowly creep; 

The melody softly dies away. 

On the clouds is playing the final ray. 



POEMS— 1S64-1866. 521 



Disappointment. 

heart of anguish; now too well I know, 

Those ancient, oft-repeated words were truth. 
The bright and crystal-leaping streams of youth, 

A-re darkened, as they toward the sea do flow. 

soul of bitterness! — I oft had seen 
The morning-sun in giant triumph rise; 
But long before he reached midway the skies, 

His face was draped, his hair was shorn of sheen. 

O weight of woe! — unheeded in my eyes, 
The fairest flower bloomed v/ith colors gay; 
Its fragrant beauty lasted but a day, 

With scattered leaves upon the ground it lies. 

saddest grief! to-day the mirthful child 
In innocence did play along the brook; 
To-morrow in the little coffin look. 

And drop a tear upon that face so mild. 

Thus changeful Nature everywhere me taught 
That brightest beauty soonest fades away; 
That all the year not smiling blooms like May; 

1 saw it oft myself, but held it naught. 

Now late alas! I feel the mournful truth, 

Whilst jealous time keeps adding to my years; 
Upon my early hopes I look with tears: 

Oh, Heaven! where are those joyous dreams of youth! 

In bitterness of heart I must confess, 

I am indeed not what I ought to be; 

Years over me have passed now twenty-three, 
I sail life's main with signal distress. 

Oh lying Hope! thou'rt fair outside, I ween; 

But wherefore promise what canst not fulfill? 

Henceforth, whilst I ascend life's rugged hill, 
No more in thy fooled herd shall I be seen. 



522 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 



SUNBUEST. 

Forth from thy hiding-place once more, Oh Sun, 
In all thy beauty, loveliness and grace! 
With silent joy I hail thy dazzling face. 

And watch thy lightful course again begun. 

Roll on eternal through the Belt of Time, 

Decked in thy gorgeous train of stars and blue; 
Forever robe the world in golden hue, 

Nor spare thy beams from any land or clime. 

A cloud whose fleece was inked with direful storms, — 
It had the shape of monsters of the deep — 
With horrid trail did o'er the Heavens sweep: 

I saw his brightness darked with Stygian forms, 

His glistening hair shot rueful rays of Night — 
No more it fell, a million dancing beams, 
Down to the Earth, like tiny golden streams. 

Nor wrapped the home of stars in leaping light. 

A gloomy loneliness came o'er my soul. 
With melancholy's pain my heart was riven. 
To darkness and to death my thoughts were given, 

A cloud across my mind did ceaseless roll. 

Long was that Night; so long that youthful Hope, 
Who ever mounts on high with outstretched wings, 
And to the stars his tuneful matin sings, 

Lost her gay plumes, and in the mire did mope. 

And blacker grew that murky pitch of Hell. 

One more frail bark v/recked on the sea of Life! 

"Oh Lord! leave not thy child amid such strife": 
I prayed, beneath those shadows dark and fell. 

The Earth did speed her wild elliptic path. 
Already had she passed her ancient goal; 
Still Sorrov/'s mournful grain deep dyed my soul; 

O'er me did seem to close the day of wrath, 



POEMS— 1864-1866. 523 

But suddenly that Erebus is cleft, 

A golden seam swift spans the veiled sky, 
Away the rifted clouds are fain to fly, 

And from her sooty spouse the air is reft. 

The Virgin Day her milky bosom bares, 
The amorous Orb shoots down his kissing rays, 
While Nature swells in deep symphonious praise, 

And wipes her furrowed front of all her cares. 

Oh Sun! of shining starry things the prime 

That move with might along the vaulted deep; 
Thy big round eye upon me ever keep, 

Whilst now I thread the giddy maze of Time. 



Lost. 

Lost child! lost child! I hear the crier sing; 

A sound that strikes the mother's heart like death: 
Whose! Whose! the people ask with sudden breath; 

Meanwhile the bells with solemn clamor ring. 

'Tis thus I seem myself, a child forlorn. 
Who wanders up and down the earth alone; 
But whom no loves entwine, no tears bemoan; 

I hear a voice within, "Why wast thou born?" 

Oh! I am sick of earth and all its joys. 
No more I love my kind, and least myself, 
I curse aloud the bitter pill of pelf; 

I weep with tears of gall my long annoys. 



On Johnston's Surrender.^ 

Oh! Nation shout; thy pulse was ebbing low. 
Thy eye did cast a deep, cadaverous glance: 
Lost was its ancient fire when from thy trance. 

The shout of victory woke anew its glow. 
Oh People hail; the red baptism is o'er. 

Thy blood no more shall ourdle every stream, 



524 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 

Nor the long grass be clotted with thy gore, 
When Battle headlong speeds his foaming team, 

Nor let weak human kind alone 
Usurp the hour of joy and praise, 

But Nature shall, in deepest tone. 
Her sweet but stilly chorus raise. 

The trees shall point higher their spires to the sky, 

And the fields shall put on their gayest attire. 
The birds in the forest shall join in the cry, 

For past is the conflict, the storm's blazing ire. 

My lovely country, oh; what though thou liest, 

As the huge oak, bereft of every leaf? 

What if with deep, yet unavailing grief. 
For loss of thy Beloved to Heaven criest? 

I know thy mantle is of widowed weeds. 
And darkly drapes thy fair, once blooming face, 

But the remembrance of heroic deeds 
Is noblest heritage of manly race. 

Thy feats of arms than which were sung. 
By poet none more grand, 

Shall soon be told by swift-winked Fame's fond 
tongue 
O'er every sea and land. 

Yet 'tis not the vain meed of her frivolous breath, 
That brings the higher reward to the brave. 

But the feeling of Right which quakes not at death, 
And glows 'neath their ashes deep in the grave. 

Humanity and Freedom were the cause 
In which Columbia raised her giant might. 
And boldly bared her sinewy limbs in fight 

For Union, Justice and the Sway of Laws, 
Alas that any son should prove untrue! 

Here as of old the envious Fiend of Hell, 

Dared his old wicked schemes once more renew: 

Headlong again from Heaven's high towers he fell. 
Huzzah! that darkest curse of Freedom's soil 
Must with its parent die — 



POEMS— 186 J,-i 866. 525 

Black Bondage, wrapped in many a hideous coil, 

And rotting in its slimy bed doth lie. 
Then call not the sacrifice vain or too great, 

For what is a country which is tarnished in name? 
I'd rather lie tombed in a soil that I hate. 

Than gaze upon my own native land in her shame. 

To A Friend. 

A little token of this day from me, 

A little symbol of my lonely mind, — 

A little book where thou some truth mayst find — 
Accept, my dearest friend, with love to thee. 
This hour calls back my life; beyond degree 

A frightful, fruitless wild of things designed; 

The fault is mine, with Hope my eyes were blind; 
But now the dark Futurity I see. 
Yet I complain not, for full well I know 

That better men than I much worse have fared. 
And oft a ray breaks through with sunny glow, 

To cheer the heart that hath erewhile despaired. 
A light with thee into my soul doth flow 
Such joyous radiance Friendship can bestow. 

The Hunter's Remorse. 

I would not for the world be thought 

In pain to take delight; 
The writhing of a speechless beast, 

Doth pierce my soul with fright. 

There is a wailing in the grove, 

A weeping in the trees; 
The broken hearted dove doth sigh 

So sadly on the breeze. 

Cold lies her blue-necked wooer now. 

The loveliest bird of wood — 
His downy breast is redly wet; 

It is his own heart's blood. 



526 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX III. 

The squirrel peers adown the leaves, 

Upon a withered limb he sate, 
Rolling his big black eye, in vain 

He seeks his silvery mate. 

Along the leafy forest btook 

The doe hath ceased her speed; 
She turns to see her little twins 

And help them in their need. 

But oh! a widowed heart is hers! 

She sniffs aloft the air. 
The poor dumb mother madly paws 

The earth in sore despair. 

The Hunter rambles through the wood. 

His luck is good to-day; 
But he hath slain with cruel will 

What man should never slay. 

There is a pleasant little dell. 

And through it runs a rill 
That softly warbles all day long 

Unto the skylark's trill. 

And in this little rill the grass. 

Its top doth gently lave. 
The lily droops her pretty face 

To see it in the wave. 

The humid brink, the mossy stones. 

Send forth so fresh a smell; 
The limbs and leaves above entwine 

To roof the lovely dell. 

And still the Hunter trudges on, 

A-weary of his toil; 
The sun looks darkly through the trees 

And frowns upon the spoil. 

The sound of Music rose so blithe 

From out that shady grot. 
The like was never heard before 

By human ear, I wot. 



POEMS— lS6Jr 1866. 527 

Two merry birds of beauteous form, 

A song of love were singing; 
And all the woods with sweetest note 

Of tenderness were ringing. 

Their wings were folds of plaited gold, 

That shone like falling stars; 
A bank of fleecy clouds their crests, 

With Heaven-colored bars. 

A little loving ball of flame 

Their little eyes did seem; 
Together all their glowing plumes 

Sent forth the rainbow's gleam. 

The Hunter here threw down his prey; 

He raised his piece on high — 
A flash darts through that darksome spot 

Like lightning in the sky. 

A dying note, the Music ceased; 

Silence was in the dell — 
The birdling's head dropt on its breast; 

Down heavily it fell. 

The mate affrighted flew away, 

But soon came back again, 
And sitting on a little spray, 

Looked down upon the slain. 

Ah! Death she ne'er had seen before! 

She soon began a lay, 
In which she wooed her merriest strain, 

And thus she seemed to say: 

"Come back, my Love, and stay with me. 

And lie not there so low! 
And we shall build a pretty nest 

Par from our hateful foe. 

Our birdies shall the fairest be. 

That e'er in wood were born; 
And we shall wake the first to greet 

The loving sun at morn. 



528 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 

A bed of flowers for thee I'll make 

At noon-tide in the grove; 
And life to us shall be a dream 

Of never-ending love. 

Why hangs thy neck upon thy breast? 

So chilly is thine eye! 
What is that redness on thy robe? 

Thou makest no reply!" 

The Hunter hears no tender note; 

His heart is like a stone; 
It heaves not at the dying look, 

Nor throbs at sorrow's moan. 

The spouse flew down beside the corpse; 

She raised the bending head— 
For tell me, could the birdling know 

Her merry mate was dead? 

She smoothes his rainbow coat of down; 

The blood she wipes away. 
So softly singing all the while 

A wild yet mournful lay. 

She makes a pillow of the leaves. 

And fashions it so rare. 
And on it lays that lifeless form 

With more than human care. 

Again the Hunter aimed his piece, 

But suddenly the wood 
Was lighted with a mighty shape; 

Before him there it stood. 

A long gray beard doth sweep the ground, 

A wand the Old Man coils; 
His eyes shot hissing streams of fire 

Like iron when it boils. 

The snaky wand he held aloft, 

The sparkles fell like rain. 
He spoke — no human voice was his: — 

"Thou hast God's creatures slain. 



POEMS— 1861,-1866, 529 

"The dew of pity in thine eye 

Hath never shot a gleam; 
The poor dum'b brute as human-kind 

Hath feelings just as keen, 

"The Spirit of the Wood, I come 

My periled ones to save; 
Now learn to grieve with other's grief." — 

With wand the air he clave. 

Down fell the Hunter in a swoon; 

He dreamed a dreadful dream, 
His wife with clotted hair beheld, 

He heard his children scream. 

Behind a secret hedge he saw 

The coward murderer aim, 
Beneath the flash he knew too well 

His father's aged frame. 

Again he heard an infant wail. 

It was his darling boy. 
Who now of all was left alone. 

His pride, his hope, his joy. 

The Hunter leaped with agony; 

Out of his trance he woke — 
The doe had fled, the bird had flown, 

But not a word he spoke. 

His murderous weapon falls in twain. 

He flings it in the brook; 
With brimming eyes, with chilling fear. 

The homeward way he took. 

The sun with half his golden shield, 

Was sending still his sheen; 
The Hunter lightly trod the leaves, 

A wiser, man, I ween- 

34 



530 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 



The Ideal World. 

The gaudy picture of the Earth, 
For me no longer hath delight. 

I long to rise above its dearth, 
Unto the sphere of Beings bright; 

With these betimes e'en now I dwell. 

Enraptured in a strange, fantastic spell. 

Death does not lead us to this bliss. 

'Tis for the living to enjoy. 
The poorest mortal need not miss 

A pleasure which can never cloy; 
There Rank and Riches do not hold — ■ 
All is the Spirit's happy mold. 

Beneath the outward crumbling shell, 
Which Time throws around all things. 

Of Truth, the deep eternal well, 
In glancing purest crystal springs; 

Oh! drink, drink full the liquid bright. 

And live in everlasting light. 

Beyond the world of sensual strife, 
In which we revel, then we pine — 

There is an inner higher life 
Of joy serene and peace divine; 

'Tis here I mean to have my home 

Among its Gods and groves to roam. 

I build myself that fair abode, 

Of others' aid I have no need, 
To it I mount the airy road 

And swing aloft on swift-winged steed; 
Above the golden clouds I soar, 
The earthly din I hear no more. 

Change conquers not this Holy Land, 
Untruth its shapes can not defile, 

They form a shining deathless band 
Who stay not there in smirking guile; 



POEMS— 186 'i-lS66. 53 j_ 

Touch them, they fall not into dust; 
Tempt them, they spurn all vicious lust, 

The high domains of sacred thought, 

The True, the Beautiful, the Good, 
With toil and oft with tears I've sought 

In silent but ecstatic mood; 
Among those shapes, may I dwell. 
Beyond this realm of shadows fell. 

The Noon Dream. 

The Sun had mounted half the way, 

Was shining in his pride, 
Beneath the old oak tree I lay, 

A-resting on my side; 
A lovely form before my eyes 

Is darting in the air, 
I cry — I grasp — away it flies 

That image debonair. 

A bird was sitting in that tree, 

Upon a bending spray. 
He tuned his throat in highest glee, 

And sang his merriest lay; 
The birdling's note I hear no more, 

His strain for me is still. 
Her voice into my soul doth pour 

Its sweetest, softest trill. 

The leaves above around me throw 

A mantle shady green, 
That dulls Apollo's heated glow. 

And dims his dazzling sheen; 
But soon to me thou dost appear. 

Beneath this leafy spread. 
With footsteps light and loving leer. 

Thou flittest overhead, 

Nearby there flows a little brook, 

The leaves and grass among, 
And making many a graceful crook, 



532 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 

It plays the brink along; 
The brooklet's kiss I may not hear, 

Beneath that old oak tree 
A spirit whispers in my ear, 

The radiant fay, 'tis she. 

I look aloft and see the sky. 

In little streaks between, 
I see the clouds in ringlets fly 

Aross that gauzy green; 
Among those clouds thy shape I see 

With golden streaming hair, 
And dancing through the canopy. 

Thou swayest in the air. 

On earth, and air, and sky I gaze, 

Whatever thing I see, 
A moment flits, then with a blaze 

It changes into thee. 
Thy fleeting form, with wanton grace. 

My mind o'er all hath led. 
And yet I have a fruitless chase, 

For thou, when seen, art fled. 



The Muse. 

The Muse alone can tell the soul's delight. 
Or can its many colored sorrows trace 
The Muse spies out its darkest hiding place, 

And brings it forth to live in letters bright. 

Upon its shadowy hue Prose casts a blight 
That darkens soon its coy and radiant grace, 
It veils before the vulgar crowd its face. 

And oft Talk startles it with cold affright. 
So shall the Muse for thee unwrap my soul. 

And show my inmost feelings, thoughts and will. 
How Time bears me its burden to my goal. 
How I my destiny and thine fulfill. 
Thus canst thou read it like a scroll. 

Reflected in Castalia's limpid rill. 



POEMS— lS6Jri866. 533 

CUPIDO. 

'Twas not an idle name 

The wise of old gave Love. 
He was a God, whose flame 

Subdued the power of Jove. 

The varied forms of things 

He enters here below, 
The One from all he brings 

And channs to joy men's woe. 

He, who withstands his might, 

Is torn by that fell strife. 
Which rules the earthly night 

And poisons human life. 

The lover true, e'en in the trees. 

In ocean, air and skies, 
One form, one image sees, 

Which with him ever hies. 

High Up. 

I know you love me, blooming Fairy, 

Your eyes have said the same, 
Of glances be not then so chary. 

You can not hide the flame; 
For when I turn and look away, 

You think I can not see, 
I caught your stealthy glance, to-day. 

Heavens! how red was she. 

I know you love me, blooming Fairy, 

The people say the same, 
Betimes you seem on cloudland airy, 

In dreams you speak my name; 
Of favor be not then so chary, 

I am a worthy man, 
You know you love me, blooming Fairy, 

Deny it, if you can. 

I know you love me, blooming Fairy, 

Your deeds have said the same; 
On yester eve, with foosteps wary, 



534 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 

I slipped behind the dame: 
"Thrice have I watched the setting sun, 

A-sitting on the sill. 
At early dusk he used to come, 

I fear that he is ill." 

And I love you, my winsome Fairy, 

To speak I have no shame, 
You flit about so weird, so very. 

Within that slender frame; 
Now I have spoken to the Fairy, 

You alone remain; 
Of words, I pray, be not contrary; 

Give up to love and flame. 

Low Down. 

Full fair of form thou art, I know. 

And graceful in thy ways, 
A pleasing look thou canst bestow, 

From eyes sun-bright with rays; 
I grant I was in love before. 

And dallied sweet with thee. 
But wily words woo me no more, 

I am again now free. 

The wild red rose along the road 

Is tinted deep and rare, 
It bows its head with fragrant load. 

Hath form of heaven fair, 
Yet who cares for the wild red rose! 

You ask the reason why? 
It may be plucked to regale the nose 

Of every passer-by. 

And she who pours on all her grace, 

Whose glance on all doth turn. 
She makes a tomboy of her face. 

Her faithless smile I spurn; 
Give me the maid who loves but one, 

Who hath a single choice, 
Whose feelings, heart and soul all run 

Into her lover's joys. 



POEMS— 1864-1866. 535 



Contemplation. 

The evening wind is gently blowing. 

The Sun hath sunk to rest. 
And darkness o'er the sky is flowing 

In haste to win the West; 
For there the rnurky Fiend is driving 

The weak remains of day, 
Though struggling beams are bravely striving, 

Against his hateful sway. 

Before the window I am sitting 

To watch that valiant fight. 
One ray to see a moment flitting 

Then sunk in hopeless night; 
And now the last sunbeam doth glimmer 

Upon the sable sky. 
The God sends not the faintest shimmer, 

Erewhile so bright and high. 

My heart I feel attuned to musing, 

Enwrapt in lonely mood. 
How men their destiny are losing. 

And can not reach the Good; 
The Sun betokens their endeavor 

To realize a Life, 
Awhile it shines, then sinks forever, 

Beneath the senses' strife. 

And Hope, too, hath her brilliant season, 

She shines with noon-tide gleams, 
But no one yet hath told the reason 

She cheats us all with dreams; 
In youth she pours her brightest treasures 

The world a May-day seems, 
But where are now her golden pleasures, 

Oh, where are e'en her dreams? 

Behold! a mother softly gazing 

In still, yet bodeful joy, * 

Her eyes to Heaven she is raising, 



536 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 

"O save to me my boy;" 
That Heaven grim begins to lower, 

Despair drives hope away, 
Ah, sorrow 'tis the mother's dower, 

And night it is her day. 

Thus Life's a rising and a setting, 

A ceaseless Birth and Death, 
The Ghost of Time breathes all-begetting. 

All-destroying breath; 
No sooner born than he is dying, 

His death is then his birth, 
He stamps his form so false and lying 

Upon the fragile Earth, 

But if all things away are passing, 

Sorrow, too, must go. 
The entire throng of plagues harassing 

Must yield before the foe; 
But in yourself be still confiding, 

Time dares not touch the soul, 
Change can not change, and is abiding 

The Dirge of Thought shall never toll. 



True Beauty. 

Oh! let me look upon thy face. 

And mark the billows bright, 
Which roll along in tender grace 

And turn thee all to light; 
The quiet smile, oh let me see 

That sleeps upon thy lip. 
On that sweet flower, like a bee. 

I fain would sit and sip. 

But not thy outward shape I prize. 
Though clothed in Love and Grace, 

So much I care not for thy eyes. 
Nor e'en thy smiling face; 

Of man this is the mortal side 



POEMS~lS6Ji-1866. 537 

Which Time to nothing brings, 
Wherein the Bad doth oft reside 
And Error always clings. 

The Beauty of thy inner life 

That glistens through thy frame. 
Thy winning manner, void of strife, 

Thy heart, which knows no blame. 
Have made thee seem an angel high 

Cast in divinest mould, 
Whose home is in the realms of sky 

Amid the worlds untold. 



The Picture. 

As I before thee sat 

I saw me in thine eye, 
Beneath the straw-brimmed hat 

In shining darkest dye; 
I dance upon the ball 

Which rolls in sparkling light. 
No fear have I to fall 

Out of that sphere so bright. 

Ohr give my picture back 

And send along the eyes, 
I love their fiery black. 

Their flame without disguise; 
Nor keep thy face behind 

Thy bosom, too, is part, 
I'll take all — body, mind, 

And oh, thy throbbing heart. 

My figure in thy look 

Reflects the soul within. 
For there in every nook 

The image dear is seen; 
And when I glance at thee 

How flattered at the sight! 
For 'tis myself I see 

All clothed in radiance bright. 



538 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 

Thy Spirit oft I feel 

To be indwelling mine, 
Thereon to stamp its seal 

Of loveliness divine; 
Oh, yes, I live in thee, 

A bond of fairest token. 
And, too, thou art in me, 

A bond for aye unbroken. 



Heakt and Harp. 

Sweet are the notes which I hear faintly welling 

From the Harp that is strung to the cool-blowing 
breeze; 

Soft are the whispers which gently are swelling 
As the waves of the wind its frail tendrils seize. 

Oft doth it raise the low moan of sadness 
And the air murmurs deeply of trouble and blight. 

Oft is its trill of wild-sounding gladness. 

As if Nature was filled with a sudden delight. 

List to the Harp! 'tis so feelingly tender, 

That it weeps, or is gladdened at each breath of wind, 
See its fair figure, of fashion so slender! 

Only Music doth seem its frail fibers to bind. 

Thus is my Heart towards thee, my Beloved. 

A sad look from thy eye can wring it with pain; 
But if to gladness and love thou art moved. 

The whole day I am singing my happiest strain. 

Touch then its strings, gently, I pray thee. 
O'er it breathe with thy softly melodious breath; 

And with the Music of Love I'll repay thee. 
Of a Love that shall last till the dark hours of death. 



POEMS— 186Jrl866. 539 



A Triple Tale. 

"Fair Dame, come sit thee down, 
And rest thee in the shade, 
Here is the fairest bower,' 
That Nature ever made. 

Our neighbors are the trees, 

The aged forest lyings, 
And at our feet the brooklet, 

Over the pebbles sings. 

Above our heads is stretched 
Of leaves the close-spun woof, 

Against the mid-day beams 
It is the fittest roof. 

Sit on this mossy root. 

Beneath the big oak tree, 
And I will tell a Tale, 

A Tale of Love for Thee." 

So like a morning rose, 

Reddening in its pride, 
The modest maiden fair, 

Sat blooming at his side. 

"A piteous Tale of Love, 
Ah, piteous let it be; 
Like a softly-sighing wind, 
Joy of sadness is to me." 

"It was in olden time 

There lived a valorous Knight, 
Who many lands had seen, 
And fought in many a fight. 

A man of bodeful look. 
To smile he ne'er was seen, 

The lists he always spurned. 

Nor crowned the beauteous queen. 



540 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III, 

But in the bloody fray 

He had his sole delight. 
When battle hovered near, 

As the Sun his face shone bright. 

Seldom he spoke a word, 

And all he filled with fright, 
None knew his name, but he 

Was called "The Speechless Knight." 

Some heavy destiny 

Did overload his life, 
He sought surcease from grief 

In din of deadly strife. 

One night he lay asleep 

In camp, beside the fire, 
Suddenly up he sprang 

And spake in accents dire: 

"Ha! now I know her grave. 

Deep in the stream she lies; 
A broken heart she holds, 
On me she darts her eyes. 

"Thy resting place I've sought, 

For many a weary year. 
And Life to me has been 
An ever-gushing tear. 

"With thee I soon shall lie. 

The wave shall be our cover, 
No longer shalt thou say, 
I am a faithless lover." 

The sky was set with diamond stars. 
The moon in dazzling robes v/as dight. 

His armour cast a farewell sheen, 

No more was seen The Speechless Knight.' 

The maiden dropped her head 

To hear the mournful end, 
Her bosom swells, her eyes 

Two crystal globules send. 



POEMS— 1864-1866. 541 

On his arm she gently leaned. 

Almost abashed with fear, 
She drew a seeming sigk, 

And whispered in his ear: 

'Thy story leaves a sting 

Of doubt within my breast. 
Now tell another tale — 

A tale of true-love blest. 

I do not wish to think 

That men can be untrue; 
For love to me may come 

And cause me bitter rue." 

Deep in those melting eyes 

So slyly did he peer; 
Upon a surface dark he saw 

His likeness through a tear. 

Modestly he reached his hand, 

Softly she laid her head, 
With a louder heart than tongue, 

Full tenderly, he said: 

'There was a wandering youth 

Whose joy it was to roam, 
To see the many lands 

Far from his own dear home; 

The prodigies of Nature, 

With curious eyes to scan. 
The mighty works to know 

Which had been done by man. 

But not the showy forms 

Of sense alone he sought 
Wearily he toiled to reach 

The farthest heights of Thought. 



542 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX III. 



And in that region's heart 
The magic wand to seize, 

Which opes the secret book 
Of all the world with ease. 

Thus to himself he mused; 

Upon this toilsome way 
No woman dare I take, 

For she may cause my stay. 

Away all thought of joy 
Of dalliance or of rest, 

That bright boon must be mine. 
It is my soul's behest. 

One day a shining shape 
Did pass before his eyes. 

Of form more fair ne'er was 
An angel from the skies. 

And in that form a soul 

Shone out with purer beams. 

Than from the Huntress fall 
Sending her chastest gleams. 

Her look was full of love, 
On him she turned her face. 

The youth a moment ceased 
To urge his eager race. 

Soon he bethought himself: 
"I'll not be led astray;" 

One wistful glance he gave, 
Then sped his lonely way. 

But, still before his mind, 

Or even in the air, 
Nought hovered far or near ^ 

Beside that image fair. 



POE3IS~186'rl866. 543 

"I'll turn about and take 

Once more a single glance," 
Again he sees the maid, 
Is held as if in trance. 

She throws a gladsome smile, 

Turning her look behind, 
The youth must follow after 

With restlessness of mind. 

But soon the Maiden stops 

Within that shady grove; 
Gone are his lofty plans. 

He can not choose but love. 

Nearby he takes a seat 

Beneath a big oak tree. 
And thus to that fair maiden 

In sweetest voice says he: 

"Pair Dame, come, sit thee down 

And rest thee in the shade. 
Here is the fairest bower 
That Nature ever made." 

The Tale vv^as at an end. 

He waited for reply. 
The Damsel's heart was full, 

O'erflowing in her eye: 

"That Maid I know full well. 
And fain would tell the truth. 
Her bosom beats with joy, 

For she loves, too, the youth." 



APPENDIX IV 



. THE SOUL^S JOURNEY 

(In Three Parts) 
Part First— Triumph of Death 

CYCLET THE FIRST. 
I. 

Dear Friend, you lately wished 
This little book to borrow, 

Containing a few wild notes 
Wherein I have sung my sorrow. 

In what is called good taste 

I confess the book is not written, 

I have simply shouted aloud 

As my soul to pieces was bitten. 

It demands, too, stronger nerves 
Than belong to our generation; 

It is also quite devoid 
Of pious ejaculation. 

We need some more of the strength 
The mighty Poet would foster. 

When he plucks out on the stage 
The eyes of old foolish Gloster. 

Nor was Italia's bard 

So very mild in his drawing. 

When he painted in Hell below 
Ugolin scalp and skull gnawing. 

(544) 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 545 

No lies are told in the book. 

Nor is the conviction hidden; 
Ere this I have lost a friend 

By speaking out what is forbidden. 

I have given you warning now 

As far as I am able, 
So lay the book aside 

Unless your nerves are stable. 



This half of me, oh lay 
Within the ground, 

A half can not be healed 
Of its one wound. 

Nor tell me that old Time 
Can cure my sorrow; 

I will not have it cured, 
More would I borrow. 

Ye murky shades of Night, 
My soul enshroud. 

Nor let one beam of light 
Cut through the cloud. 

I wish to keep my heart 

All torn in two, 
And daily have it drip 

With bloody dew. 

The other half of me 
Lies in the ground, 

This half can not be healed; 
Drip, drip, oh wound. 

3. 

There ye lie, my heart's own roses 
Soon to melt away to earth, 

In your leaves my hope reposes, 
It must wither from its birth. 

35 



546 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

One is but the tender blossom, 
Rose-bud with a peep of red, 

Fallen from its mother's bosom, 
Scarce begun yet it is dead. 

But for thee, my full-blown flower. 
Tears are scarlet as thy leaf. 

And I feel a demon's power 
Smiting in my heart for grief. 

There ye wilt, oh lovely roses, 

Soon your forms will find the tomb. 

In you still my soul reposes 
Though no more I see you bloom. 



4. 

I knew not what I had, 

When thou wast at my side. 

Ah, often 'tis my prayer 
With thee would I had died. 

I knew not what it was 

Which from thy presence spread. 
But now that it is gone 

I wish that I were dead. 

Ambitioii's dream was mine 
When thou didst smile on me. 

Now all my life is turned 
Into a dream of thee. 

Whatever praise I win. 

Whatever hope of fame. 
Bring but the bitter tear; 

Without thee what's a name? 

Could I but call thee back 

My gratitude to tell. 
For that brief moment's time 

Eternity I'd sell. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 547 

Life is a living death, 

And every breath a sigh 
Oh, that the end might come 

And I lie down and die. 



I feel the tepid tears 

Roll down my cheeks, 
Methinks a stream of blood 

Which heavenward reeks. 

There blots this word I write 

A scarlet drop. 
The heart so full must flow 

And never stop. 

Mine eye is but a wound 

That taps the heart, 
And drops come gushing out 

From every part. 

Yon scarlet landscape seemed 

Once bright to me, 
But now through mine own blood 

I have to see. 

There falls upon the world 

A radiance red. 
The sun above doth look 

As if he bled. 



6. 

Thy face is on the air 

Everywhere, 
Far in the sinking cloud. 

In the crowd, 
"Thou art that form," think I, 

"Sweeping by." 



548 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

To me darts back thy look 

From my book; 
All letters spell the same, 

Thy sweet name; 
I see thee in thy bloom 

Once more loom, 
Then o'er all falls the gloom 

Of the tomb. 

7. 
To thee my daily meed of love I pay, 

A tear, 
Which lifts thee up from thy low bed of clay, 

So drear. 

A tear that ever shall a picture hold 

Of thee, 
Ta'en in some sad or happy time of old. 

With me. 

A tear throbbed out the centre of my breast 

By throes. 
And quivering with a wavy wild unrest 

Of woes. 

A tear whose crystal holds thy life serene 

Insphered, 
And rules mine eye as some majestic queen 

So weird. 

A tear which bubblmg up from memory's well 

Down deep. 
Doth drag the past from out his murky cell 

Of sleep. 

8 
Though the moon be faintly smiling 
■ At the lovers' low beguiling 

In her soft and silken streams. 
But her glimmer 
Growing dimmer 
Lights me weepmg in my dreams. 



THE SOUL' 8 JOURNEY. 549 

Though the sun be gently glowing 
And mild beams on all bestowing 
As he slowly sinks away, 
But his glimmer 
Growing dimmer 
Leaves within my soul no ray. 

Though mine eyes show nought of sadness. 
Or mayhan betoken gladness. 
Inwardly I feel the tear; 
Soon their gammer 
Growing dimmer 
Into night will disappear. 

Scarce I hear the call of duty. 
Scarce I note the thing of beauty 
That once made my bosom thrill; 
'Tis a glimmer 
Growing dimmer 
That the heart no more can fill. 

Once I dwelt within a presence 
O'er me raying beams of pleasance. 
When began to wane its light 
Till its glimmer 
Growing dimmer 
Fled, and left me in the night. 

9. 
The world is not the world 

Which once I knew. 
The rainbows all are gone 

That gave it hue. 

At night the crape hangs o'er 

A mighty bier, 
And every star above 

Lets fall a tear. 

The sunlight, too, is changed, 

It is so wan, 
Weeping some other part 

Forever gone. 



550 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IT 

I step within tlie house, 

The soul is fled, 
A hollowness it is, 

My home is dead. 

Where'er I go or look 

There is a void; 
The world is not the world. 

Is quite destroyed. 

10. 

My rhymes are drops of blood 

That gurgle low, 
Their wound I dare not stanch, 

It has to flow. 

I would not sing a word 

If I were whole. 
But song alone relieves 

The writhing soul. 

Think not it is my sport 

To make this verse, 
I feel I must avoid 

What is far worse. 

Ah Poesy, thou art 

The surgeon's knife. 
Which cuts me to the heart 

To save my life. 



CYCLET THE SECOND. 

1. 

What storms the raging heart 

In wild refrain? 
Is it a new deiight, 

Or the old pain? 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 55^ 

The South sends up her breeze 

To free the land, 
The brooks leap down the hills 

Out Winter's hand. 

The buds peep out their beds 

To greet the day, 
The forest orchestra 

Begins to play. 

The children out the house 

Rush to the air. 
Wild rings the chime of glee, 

Joy everywhere. 

Heaven's Grand Almoner, 

The bright-haired sun. 
Throws down his fairest gift 

And Spring is won. " 

Oh Spring, let me not hear 

Thy merry strain, 
The more delight I feel 

The more the pain. 

2. 

The rose-bud has opened its lips 

And whispers to me of a maid, 
Whom Spring had brought to her bloom 

When her heart in my bosom was laid. 

The lark is trilling with glee 

Her bridal refrain in the shade, 
I know the song that she sings. 

Its music I learned of the maid. 

The lily is drooping in white. 
Its leaves are beginning to fade, 

Oh well I hear what it tells — 
The story of the maid. 



552 ^ WRITER OF B00K8~=APPENDIX IV, 



Vernal winds, so blandly blowing. 

Frozen waters free ye set, 
But my tears ye start to flowing 

Like the mountain rivulet. 

Vernal Sun, thou mildly shinest. 
Till the earth once more is dry. 

Otherwise thou me inclinest, 
Ever wet is now mine eye. 

Vernal Love, from thee youth borrows 
Sweetest strains of glee and hope. 

But to me thou breathest sorrows 
In whose memory I grope. 

Genial Spring, thy glance releases 
Ice-bound joys of ail the year. 

But to me thy flood increases 
By the melting of the tear. 

4. 

Weeping through the wood I wander, 

"Something drives me on my way, 
And my longing groweth fonder 
As alone in tears I stray. 

Streams roll down the face of Nature 
As she looks upon my pain. 

And the eye of every creature 
Sends its little drop of rain. 

From a bush I hear a ditty, 

"Breaks thy heart, thou lonely man?" 
Echoes to that strain of pity 

Softly through the forest ran. 

Little songster, leave my sorrow, 
I would have thee only sing. 

O'er my corpse, a dirge to-morrow 
And a leaflet on it fling. 



THE SOUL' 8 JOURNEY. 553 

5. 

The Painter Autumn touches now the wood, 
He spreads his colors on the leafy green, 
A picture thereout grows of wondrous sheen 
Wherein he paints his melancholy mood; 
But when his work of beauty is once done, 
Each leaf which hath his gentle pencil felt. 
Drops down to earth and into soil doth melt 
When just its time of glory had begun. 
The gloomy Painter studies to portray 
On Nature's canvas bright the face of Death; 
But all his strokes are followed by decay. 
His picture vanishes before his breath; 
And when the leaves are gone, as in a dream. 
He follows, too, the victim of his theme. 



Leaves are here twirling. 
Lighting now there, 

Ceaselessly whirling 
Down through the air. 

Widowers moaning 
Are all the trees. 

List their low groaning 
Loading the breeze. 

Forests are bitten 

By a white asp. 
Meadows are smitten, 

Look how they gasp! 

Fairest of flowers 

Softly has fled; 
How the stalk cowers. 

Bowing the head! 

Autumn is passing, 

Oh this unrest! 
Burden harassing, 

Crushing the breast. 



554 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

Tell me the reason 
Why the heart's tossed? 

'Tis not the season, 
Something is lost. 

7. 
When I see the haze of Autumn, 

Something stirs within my breast, ' 
When I see the leaflets falling 

Feeling rises robbing rest. 

Sighs steal out, disdaining custom, 
Tears come trickling without best. 

And I hear a voiceless calling, 
A deep longing unexpressed. 

Ah I feel it was the Autumn 

When thy love first thrilled my breast. 
And autumnal leaves were falling 

When I saw thee laid to rest. 



On all sides fragments of the rainbow gleam. 
Scattered upon the hill and through the vale, 
Autumn his many-colored coat of mail 
In sad presentiment to don doth seem; 
With his dread enemy he now must fight. 
From out his radiant armor peers a face 
So overcast with deeply pensive grace 
That every soul is sorrowed at the sight. 
The combat rages mid the stalwart trees. 
And sweeps along the mead until the street, 
The hazelike battle smoke lowers o'er the leas, 
But dying leaves proclaim their lord's defeat. 
All reddened in their blood the ground they strew. 
Or taking on betimes Death's sallow hue. 

9. 
The grass is withered, 

Crisp are the leaves, 
The fruit is gathered, 

^tacked are the sheaves. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY, 555 

The trees forsaken 

Weep low their fate. 
The frost hath taken 

Away their state. 

There stands how lonely 

The monarch oak! 
With bare head only 

Waits Winter's stroke. 

The woods with riot 

No longer ring. 
The birds are quiet. 

Too sad to sing. 

Each living creature 

Doth seem to mourn, 
And over Nature 

A veil is worn. 

Dusk robes she borrows. 

Oh what has fled! 
The season sorrows 

For its sere dead. 

Why stands this picture 

On Nature's scroll? 
It is the vesture 

Of my own soul. 

CYCLET THE THIRD. 

1. 
Could I but see thee listen 
To this rough rhyme, 
The Music of the Spheres 
Would therein chime. 

Or could I thee behold 

My words to read, 
My body would become 

A burning gleed. 



556 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

Could I revive thee no 
One line to know. 

My brain Fa set on fire 
To give it glow. 

Could I recall thy smile 
By this dull strain, 

The soul entire of love 
Therein I'd drain. 

Could I bring back thee whole 

By this one song. 
Would sing no more for aye. 

Would go along. 

2. 

"Heart, oh heart more heavy 
Than metal that ever was found, 

Methinks that if thrown in the river, 
I would sink with thee and be drowned. 

Roaming in mead or forest 

Removes of thy weight not a pound; 

I tread and my feet seem sinking 
To my final home in the ground. 

Earthy, too, is this bosom 
Whose walls enfold thee around. 

And whenever I hear thy throbbing, 
Leaden and dead ^s the sound." 

Answer to these reproaches 

Came back like a moan in a swound; 

A grave is thy heart so heavy 

With corpse and coffin and ground. 

3. 
To visit stars my soul 

Abroad had gone, 
How quick it sped iDeyond 

The gates of Dawn! 



THE SOUUS JOURNEY. 557 

Among the golden isles 

Of Heaven's sea, 
It flew and lit and sipped 

Just like a bee. 

It sought a glowing flower 

Which was not there, 
Oh still I feel the throe 

Of its despair. 

Back then it darted past 

The realm of stars, 
And homeward bent its glance 

From fiery Mars. 

This little ball of Earth 

Plunged light along, 
As tossed from star to star 

By giants strong. 

But look! bends o'er it there 

A female shape. 
Whose face is hid beneath 

A veil of crape. 

I see her tears drop down, 

Deep sighs she gave, 
The little ball of Earth 

Is but a grave. 



Source of every fairest blessing, 

Angel of my soul's repose. 
When I felt thy sweet caressing 

Nought I knew of Fortune's blows; 
Now thy parting has bereft me 

Of the base whereon I lay. 
And a ruin it has left me 

Falling inward to decay. 



558 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX lY. 

All my spirit's noiseless working, 

What I thought and what I felt. 
All that in the mind is lurking, 

All within thy bosom dwelt. 
That most secret deep relation 

I had never known before, 
Now I feel love 's the foundation 

Whereon rests the mind's whole store. 

Love, I wish that thou wert stronger 

Or deprived of all thy might. 
Then would life hold out no longer 

Or be freed of thy fierce right; 
Still my sorrow hath a sweetness 

That away I will not cast. 
And I've come to love the fieetness 

That will suffer nought to last. 



I once had a Heaven myself. 

Its deity I was alone. 
One star I hung from its arch, 

And all the universe shone. 

My Heaven has sunk into night, 

And I am a god no more. 
From the star that looked in my face 

There comes no beam as of yore. 

'Tis fallen and buried in Earth, 
Extinct is its heavenly glow, 

The Earth is the grave of the stars. 
Of Love and Heaven the foe. 



Last night to the song I listened 
That often I heard thee sing. 

And in thy voice there glistened 
A note that made the tear spring. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. - 559 

I rise from my moistened pillow 

And hasten down the stair, 
I lay me under the willow, 

The voice still sings in the air. 
I walk through the streets of the city, 

The houses are silent in sleep, 
But ever I hear the ditty 

Whose note impels me to weep. 
I come to the lonely mountain, 

Now gladly I hear that strain, 
Let the tears burst out their fountain 

Let me utter the shout of pain. 

7. 

Yon picture-frame doth seem 

Some hoary castle wall. 
From whose high window thou 

Look'st down a weeping thrall. 
I feel that I could storm 

Thy prison-house beyond. 
And batter down its towers 

That I might break thy bond. 
To make thy image breathe 

Now would I seek the spell 
In realms of bliss or blight. 

In Heaven or in Hell. 
To flush thy cheek anew 

Oh I could tap my heart. 
Could fill thy shade with blood 

Once more to make it start. 
I in thy ghost would force 

The half of every breath, 
Till both with one last gasp 

Could go along with Death. 
Graft in my stoic flesh 

The sum of earthly harm. 
So thou rush out that frame 

And rest upon this arm. 



560 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 



I saw a naked heart 

About to burst, 
It swelled and throbbed and leaped 

As if accursed. 

Into that swollen heart 

I plunge a knife, 
And cut it to the core, 

To stay its strife. 

Dark are the gouts of blood 

That from it run. 
And to a measure wild 

Fall one by one. 

Each drop in sombre hue 

Leaps into rhyme. 
And verses made of blood 

Move forth in time. 
The heart now rests awhile, 

Freed from its pain. 
But soon it swells anew — 

Must flow again. 

CYCLET THE FOURTH. 



The Future is a wayward nurse 

That holds to man her breast, 
And bids him suck of her deep curse — 

Of far-off aims the quest. 
She drives away the Now in scorn, 

And makes one but a fool; 
Ah well, I feel the bitter thorn 

To be her scouted tool. 
She spake so wise: Provide for me 

So that when I am come, 
My time can wholly given be 

To thee and thine alone. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. ^Ql 

I toiled the day with feverish brain. 

Pursuit was never still. 
The body sank beneath the strain 

The Future's maw to fill. 

But always more she did demand. 

With dark unfathomed throat — 
Yet sweet her smile, her whisper bland, 

"A little more" her note. 

One day I sternly said: 'Tis past — 

I'll sate her greed no more; 
Come now, my love, let's rest at last 

And well enjoy our store. 

I turned to do what I had hoped. 

Ah whither art thou fled? 
The jealous Future's jaws had oped — 

She swallowed thee instead. 



To look before by most was held 
Man's worthiest, highest trait, 

"Provide, Provide," spake snowy eld, 
"For sick or sound estate." 

Mild Prudence said: "Art. thou alone? 

Dare not with Fortune toy; 
The dog e'en buries first his bone. 

Will then his store enjoy." 

Let Prudence answer now, I pray, 

Of many questions one: 
What boots its garnered toil to-day 

The object being gone? 

3. 

Sweet little Madeleine, 
Again thy birth-day's here, 

Four years have quickly passed 
Since first thou didst appear. 



562 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV, 

What joys thou hast called forth 
In mother's heart and mine, 

The angels could not tell 
E'en with their lips divine. 

But since thy last birth-day. 
Death has been on our track. 

Thy mother went away 

And has not since come back. 

Our life it was so sweet, 
So happy were we three. 

That we ne'er had the thought 
It could not always be. 

Soon in thy little mind 
Thy mother will be dim. 

Who loved thee so that oft 
Her eyes ran o'er the brim. 

But still thy laugh rings out, 
Nor dost thou seem to miss 

Her whom it gave such joy 
Thy little lips to kiss. 

Could we but have her back, 
How much would we not give; 

We'd share with her our years 
So that she too might live. 

Together we would stray, 
And then together die; 

None would be left to mourn. 
Nor she, nor thou, nor I. 

We'll see her face no more, 

Our hearts send forth a moan. 
For thou and I, my child. 

Must now go on alone. 
But often on our way 

We shall cast back a look 
To those bright years of love. 

Ere she our path forsook. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 553 

4. 

How is it in the grave, mother, 

That would I like to know, 
I long to sleep with thee, mother, 

Beneath the shining snow. 

Then over me in May, mother, 

To have the violets blow. 
And turn their blue eyes down, mother. 

To where we nestle low. 

The wind upon my grave, mother. 

The falling leaves would strow, 
And redbreast lighting there, mother, 

Would peep for us below. 

The earth above is lone, mother, 

I have nowhere to go, 
Oh, take me to thy bed, mother. 

Beneath the shining snow. 



The warm-swaddled babes of the Spring 
Are peering from every tree, 

But I have to think of the buds 
That erewhile blossomed for me. 

Oh, bright little tip of the rose, 
At thy look my heart will break. 

Thou callest to mind a red lip 
And thee let me kiss for its sake. 

Oh, why should ye blossom again 
While my buds stay in the earth, 

And never once rise from their sleep 
With the Spring to take the new birth? 

Could I bring them to bloom once more. 
My life's weary years would I toil, 

I would water them daily with tears, 
Then give them my body as soil. 



564 ^ yVRITBR OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 



I went into the wood 

To still my grief; 
I heard the sighing leaves; 

Oh, no relief. 

With sleep I tried to stanch 
My tears' hot stream, 

I saw her die again 
In my wild dream. 

I sought the quiet grove 

Where now she lies, 
The flood has all died up 

Within mine eyes. 

Beneath this grassy plot 

In violets dressed, 
Which waits beside thy grave 

Here shall I rest. 



My heart, I think that thou art mad. 

Who can thy ways explain? 
Thy pleasures are in mourning clad, 

Thy joys leap into pain. 

I lie upon a grassy mound, 
The world seems giving cheer, 

The air is full of merry sound, 
I smile, then drop a tear. 

Yon herds are sporting on the lea. 

Their fun is never spent, 
I laugh within to see their glee. 

Then feel my soul is rent. 

Whene'er a joy grasps me with might, 

A sigh is in it found. 
Whene'er my heart swells with delight, 

Then bursts its olden wound. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 555 

8. 
I can not feel that thou art gone, 

My life still glides with thine; 
But when I look to see thy smile, 

I know what loss is mine. 
I hear thy footsteps' buoyant tread 

As they ascend the stair, 
But then I think of thy last hour, 

I know thou art not there. 
Up from the page I turned my look 

About to call thy name, 
Then suddenly an image darts— 

Thy stark and pallid frame. 
I can not feel that thou art gone, 

So deep our lives entwine; 
Except I think and think I must, 

Unbroken is the line. 
But when I think and think I must 

Of that autumnal dawn. 
Oh, then my tears full plainly tell 

I feel that thou art gone. 

9. 
Above thy feverish frame I hung 

And watched the waning light. 
Which in thy warm and friendly eyes 

Was turning into night; 
Those drooping eyes blazed forth once more 

Their former love and grace, 
As thou didst clasp me round the neck, 

It was our last embrace. 
The mind had almost quit the flesh, 

Thou knewest me alone. 
Thy love still felt that I was there 

When Reason quite was gone; 
And then methinks the morning sun 

Shone out thy sickly face, 
And thou didst clasp me round the neck, 

It was our last embrace. 



566 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX IV. 

Thy struggling arms pressed down my head 

Until thy lips I met, 
And they still moved to give the kiss, 

Though moist with Death's cold sweat; 
Oh, yet I see within my mind 

Thy features' glowing trace 
As thou didst clasp me round the neck. 

It was our last embrace. 

It seemed as if the last, last drop 

Of life thou didst expend, 
In order that thy life of love 

In love might wholly end; 
Eternity will ne'er that smile 

Of parting love efface, 
As thou didst clasp me round the neck. 

It was our last embrace. 



10. 

The beldames three crossed my path one day, 
I turned aside to avoid their way, 
My feet in fetters there seemed to stay, 
My jaws were locked, no word could say. 

"He comes," they shrieked with a mad laugh of zeal. 
One had a spindle, another a wheel, 
A thread thereon she began then to reel, 
A thread whose clew in my brain I could feel. 

The third one raised the -remorseless shears 

Which her fingers ply through the murderous years. 

No wail can melt the wax of her ears. 

Her eyes fierce flame burns up all her tears. 

The thread was flowing with droplets so red. 
The beldame looked for a moment and said: 
If I should cut now this little thread. 
Then he, methinks, would only be dead. 



THE SOUL'S JOUR^'EY. 5^7 



But I shall snap his heart in twain, 
And take the part which has no pain, 
And leave him a half to bleed amain, 
That he both alive and dead remain. 

The beldames three have left my path, 
But still I see those eyes of wrath. 
And daily in a crimson bath 
I feel the shears the beldame hath. 



11. 



I know my words are red 
For from my heart they gush, 

Its drops rise to my tongue 
And into verses rush. 

Red let them stand on white, 

The rubric to my grief. 
Their color in mine eye 

Is what brings me relief. 

Of sweet and sickly strains 
I shun the mawkish flood, 

The song alone I love 
Writ in the Poet's blood. 

Away thou merry man 
Thy soul must riven be 

To let thy voice burst out 
And join this song with me. 

For though the word be stained 

In colors of the heart, 
It must be seen through tears 

The crimson to impart 

The Fates cut man in twain, 
Hounds are the cruel years. 

Let Poet write in blood. 

Let Reader read through tears. 



568 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX IV, 

12. 

Oh that my life might glide 

Into a dream, 
And I forever lave 

In memory's stream. 

Tear off this clogging flesh 

To me not kin, 
It is the wall of Hell 

Which shuts me in. 

Strike out the senses wild, 

For they but keep 
My sighing soul awake 

When it would sleep. 

Blast too the outer world 

Till it be nought; 
Why must it still intrude 

Upon my thought? 

Then as the sweetest dream 

So light, so free, 
Again the years will come 

Thou wast with me. 



One memory of thee 
Will be my soul. 

Eternity in love 
Away will roll. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 569 

Part Second — Triumph of the Image 

CYCLET THE FIRST. 



By day I pull a wooden boat 
Whose speed with toil is bought, 

By night I in a shallop float 
Whose oar is but my thought. 

By day I feel the bleeding rent. 

For half my flesh is gone, 
By night that half to me is sent 
And I am whole till dawn. 

By day are sundered human hearts 
And tears of blood then stream. 

By night restored are the parts 
When man can be a dream. 

By day I wander a lost soul. 
By night comes rescue soon, 

Oh that knell of day would toll 
And into night I swoon. 

2. 

There bloooms an Oleander 

Alone in a foreign land, 
It dreams and seems to wander 

While its flowers of fire expand. 

In dreams it seems to wander 
Far off to its home in the South, 

How burns that Oleander! 

Each bud has a flame in its mouth. 

That burning Oleander 

Has gone to stand with its mate, 
Where golden streams meander; 

How happy now its fate! 



570 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

The golden streams meander 
And the winds soft kisses seem, 

Oh faithful Oleander, 
Thy lover is a dream. 

3. 
When on my couch at night 

My head I lay, 
The Dream is the Great God 

To whom I pray. 

"Thou Monarch of that realm 

Where rests her shade. 
Into whose airy form 
I would now fade; 

Oh bear to her my ghost, 

Leave here the clay, 
I'll rest in her embrace 

Till break of day. 

I'll rest in her embrace 

Till break of Doom, 
And dream the dream of love 

Beyond the tomb." 

4. 
I stretch my hands to hold her 

Though shadow too I seem. 
In arms I will enfold her, 

A dream within a dream. 

In arms I will enfold her 
Now but a ghostly gleam. 

My soul, embrace her bolder, 
A dream within a dream. 

My soul, embrace her bolder. 
The lost of thine redeem, 

Before to nought we moulder, 
A dream within a dream. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 571 

Before to nought we moulder 

Who now two shadows seem, 
I in my arms enfold her, 

A dream within a dream. 

I in my arms enfold her 

Whoni my own soul I deem; 
But oh, I could not hold her, 

A dream within a dream. 

Although I could not hold her 

No more than sunny beam. 
But still my love I told her, 

A dream within a dream. 



I wandered through the grove 

Where rest the dead; 
I saw my own new grave. 

My name I read. 

It was beside the mound 

Where thou art laid, 
And yesterday with thine. 

My tomb was made. 

Beneath the faint moonshine 

What shadow's this? 
I feel a soft embrace, 

I know thy kiss. 

Our hearts with glow of youth 
Once more we plight, , 

While of thine eyes I drink 
The gentle light. 

Then rove we as of old 

About the grove, 
With flowers we deck the graves 

Of those we love. 



572 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX lY. 

The years roll swiftly by 

In happy flight, 
We live a life of love 

In that one night. 

Then sweetly in the tomb 

As in our bed, 
We lay us down to rest 

Among the dead. 



Methought that I lay in the graveyard 

So softly by thy side, 
But whether alive I know not. 

Or whether I had died. 

For my soul I cared no longer, 

The body it was all. 
And the Universe was bounded 

Just by that earthy wall. 

As we lay in sweet embraces 

The bell began to toll. 
Some one, thought I, is departing: 

Here cometh my own soul. 

7. 
The air grew pale with death 

Though it was noon, 
The Sun's bright rim had sunk 

Into the Moon. 

Lost was the merry day 

In folds of night. 
And o'er the world fell down 

A swooning light. 

With hasty tread there sped 

A human host. 
Each man let fall his flesh 

And turned a ghost. 



THE 80UUS JOURNEY. 573 

Like arrow from a bow 

Desire him drave, 
Until he quickly lit 

Upon a grave. 

He sank into the tomb. 

Where side by side 
He laid himself to rest 

With one who died. 

The shapes of human air 

Sweep from above; 
What rules them more than life? 

It is their love. 

The mountain and its trees 

To phantom fade, 
The earth itself doth glide 

Into its shade. 

Mankind are longing dreams 

That haunt the tomb, 
And all things rush to meet 

Their shadowy doom. 

Wild into Love alone 

The world did swoon 
The Sun in Heaven fell 

Into the Moon. 



8. 

I looked on a soul at that hour 
When the heavens are open to sleep, 

All swollen it was with tears 
And each tear with throes did leap. 

I asked, What ails thee, my soul. 
Why is this throbbing so deep? 

A whisper ran through its sighs, 
I can not, can not weep. 



574 



A WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX IV. 

Oh bring me the lost one again 

For a moment even in sleep, 
Then the flood of my tears will burst 

Oh then I can weep, can weep. 



An angel touched me and said: 
"Here are three goblets of tears; 

Once more I give thee to taste 
The sorrows of all thy years." 

I drank off my childhood's cup 

Without a qualm or a halt; 
Water it was and no more, 

With perhaps a grain of salt. 

Then I quaffed the bowl of my youth. 
But it was very small, \ 

More salt there was than before 
V/ith some infusion of gall. 

The angel handed me next 

The largest beaker of all: 
"Here is the rain of thine eyes 

That daily continues to fall." 

"Oh those are not tears of man, 
Why now do they look so red? 

"Because thou art shedding not tears, 
'Tis thy blood that thou dost shed." 

10. 

Deep was the darkness around me, 

Awake I lay tossing in bed, 
Thoughts would no nothing but wound me 

They cut like a sword in my head; 
Of woe an Oceanic billow 

Was rolling my soul to thy bier, 
The fountains burst out and my pillow 

Was wet with the midnight tear. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 575 

But when at that hour I lay sleeping 

And carelessly swaying in dreams, 
The Spectres came to me weeping 

Wherewith the other world teems; 
Like the soft slender arms of the willow 

Bent o'er me a shadow most dear, 
Oh then I awoke and my pillow 

Was wet with the midnight tear. 

Awake or asleep I must follow 

The thought or the image of thee, 
And though my pursuit may be hollow, 

'Tis far the sweetest to me. 
Let Sorrow's Oceanic billow 

Roll nightly thy soul to my bier, 
And the fountains burst out and my pillow 

Be wet with the midnight tear. 



11. 

Gory and ghostly is the strain I sing; 

'Tis blood that flows when pierced is the heart, 

And red must be the words that paint its smart. 

Since tears are such a superficial thing. 

Dropping betimes for any little sting 

Which pricks a nerve and makes the body start. 

That they can not bestead the deeper Art 

Which seeks the half-lost soul anew to wing. 

But ghostly too I say my strain to be; 

For when the Present's from our senses fled. 

And all the world around to us is dead. 

Then through the hallowed groves of Memory 

We roam, or in the land of golden dreams 

We dwell, where shadow substance seems. 



576 ^ WRITER OF BOOK^— APPENDIX IV. 



CYCLET THE SECOND. 

1. 

I have fallen in love with my sorrow, 

It sings in my soul a soft lay, 
And the theme of its song it doth borrow 

From her to whose spirit I pray. 

It has opened to me though a stranger 
The world that is 'ying beyond. 

And I now have become a wild' ranger 
In realms that are raised with its wand. 

And so oft when my sorrow is sleeping, 

Or e'en may be ready to die, 
I will wake it and set it to weeping. 

Its pinions then waft me on high. 

2. 

Methought my heart I had pressed 

All into one v/oeful word; 
Oh that was a wilder note 

Than ever before v/as heard. 

In dreams I said it in Heaven, 

The angels came trooping around. 

Their souls in vibration I saw 

With the throe of the sorrowful sound. 

I then spake it down to the earth. 

It fell into millions of ears, 
The skies were an echo of sighs. 

And the brooks were a flood of tears. 

The magical word I next sang 
Amid the mounds of the dead. 

Then arose a shadowy host 
And rustled over my head. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 577 

Up starts the shape that I seek, 

Whose look is my daily bread; 
Oh thou art the heart of my heart, 

And thine is the word I have said. 



The Sun stood o'er my head 

At deep midnight, 
But in his great round eye 

Wan was the light. 

A tear cut off his rays 

From wonted glow; 
I said to him: "Oh Sun, 

Why weep'st thou so? 

He moved his great round eye 

And looked at me: 
"Thy moans have reached the stars, 

I pity thee. 

I've turned about my steeds, 

Am going back. 
The Past shall rise again. 

Along my track." 
He hurried to the East, 

Sank in the sea, 
And then from out the West 

At morn rose he. 
Backward the seam of Time 

He rips each hour, 
The Done becomes undone 

With crash of power. 
The tomb begins to live, 

There stirs the clay. 
The dead break out their graves 

And walk away. 
Thy hour is drawing on; 

Will burst my heart! 
What footsteps in the hall! 

Oh here thou art. 
37 



578 ■ ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

4. 

Along the river Himmelon 

I know a holy grove. 
The stream is dark, the air is dun, 

But nightly there I rove. 

The stream is dark, the air is dun. 
The souls embrace above, 

Above the flood of Himmelon 
And all are light with love. 

Above the flood of Himmelon 
Whose billows dimly move, 

There is no moon, there is no sun, 
This shall ye sometime prove. 

There is no moon, there is no sun. 
Love lights the sacred grove, 

Within the vale of Himmelon 
Where nightly now I rove. 

Within the vale of Himmelon 
I watch the spectral drove, 

Until I find the missing one 
There wandering in the grove. 



5. 

There hangs thy lovely face 

Upon the wall. 
The smile, the sun, the soul — 

I see them all. 

Those pallid lips prepare 

The kiss to give, 
A longing 's in thine eyes. 

They look, they live. 

My arms around thy neck 

I softly reach. 
Within my soul I hear 

Thy gentle speech. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 579 

I feel thy stroking hand 

Upon my head; 
Oh thou art now alive! 

No, I am dead. 

My vacant body here, 

Stow it away, 
It is a useless clod 

Of useless clay. 

Now have I passed the bourn 

Which makes us twain. 
My soul has linked anew 

Its broken chain. 



6. 

I saw thee weeping in dreams 
For the life that thou hast left, 

I heard thy sigh for the beams 
Of which thy soul is bereft. 

Thy body translucently showed 
The drops as they rose to the eye. 

As wave after wave they o'erflowed 
To the heaving of thy sigh. 

Methought that I too became 
Just what I before me beheld, 

My tears were running the same 
And my sobs were as loudly expelled. 

The marvel was great and I said: 
"Our ailment is common, my dear; 

I am living and thou art dead, 
But we both seem shedding one tear." 

"The realms in which we abide," 
She answered, "Much differ in name, 

But the fountain whence our tears glide 
Remains forever the same." 



580 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

7. 

What drives me forth 

I can not guess, 
I only feel 

A restlessness. 

Deep in a wood 

I stroll away. 
Beside a brook 

Entranced I stay. 

How all things show 

A friendly face! 
Yet ne'er before 

I saw this pla,ce. 

I know this oak, 

The brooklet, too. 
Those flowers there 

Are old yet new. 

The bird that's singing, 
I've heard his song, 

I've seen yon squirrel 
Skipping along. 

This sunny gleam 

I recollect. 
The fragrant air 

I too detect. 

I moved my body 

As now I do, 
I throw the pebble 

Which then I threw. 

I've stooped to pick 

This very rose 
Just from the bush 

Where now it grows. 



THE SOUUS JOURNEY. ^gl 

Some presence felt 

Is everywhere, 
And though unseen 

It fills the air. 

A music faint 

Floats round my head. 
It is the voice 

Of one that's fled. 

Ah now I know; 

Beneath this tree 
Last night in dreams 

I sat with thee. 

In converse sweet 

We roamed the wood, 
Beside the brook 

Together stood. 

Thou wast a shadow 

And I was, too, 
But our life was real. 

Our love was true. 

Thus was my dream 

Half prophecy, 
The wood is here. 

But not with thee. 

Here is the rose. 

The brook, the oak; 
But why not thou? 

Because I woke. 

The future world 

That dream will be. 
And all fulfilled 

The prophecy. 



582 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS^APPENDIX IV. 



The barrier between the two worlds 

Thy loss has taken away, 
And whether I dream or I awake 

Is more than I can say. 

Entranced I pass down the street 

Amid the hurrying throng. 
We are all a swarm of ghosts 

As we go moving along. 

I turn my eyes to the clouds 

With their forms so fickle and frayed, 
A realm of shadows it is 

And I myself am a shade. 

When weary I lie on my couch, 
The faces come flitting o'erhead; 

The question then darts through my mind, 
Can it be that I, too, am dead? 

The bridge between waking and dreams 
Has vanished all with thy breath. 

And the chasm is quite filled up 
That lay between life and death. 

9. 
I had a longing so strong 

That mine eyes swooned into my will, 
Then I saw the image of song 

Whose notes in my soul ever thrill. 

I prayed to that shade: Oh return 

To thy beautiful life of yore. 
The tears in my flesh will burn 

Till thy body my rest restore. 

She answered: The arches which span 

The world-dividing abyss 
Allow no return to man; 

Still across the chasm we kiss. 



THE SOUL' 8 JOURNEY. 

Between thee and me the sun 

Will roll forever his years; 
But think what now thou hast done, 

Then brush away gladly thy tears. 

For the spell is given to thee 

To call me up from my bier; 
And all that I was thou canst see. 

For truly am I not here? 

By thy side is moving my face, 
And still our lives remain one, 

The dead and the living embrace 
Though between them rolls the Sun. 

10. 
When Autumn lies in dreamy haze 

Enfolding hill and dale, 
From out the mist I see thee gaze. 

Then kiss thee through the veil. 

When twilight robes the world in gray 

And forms all seem to fail. 
Then through the dusk there comes a ray 

Me kissing through the veil. 
Beside my fire I drowsy trace 

Of love some olden tale. 
Beneath the page doth rise thy face, 

Tiien kiss we through the veil. 
The days that are forever gone 

Send up their shadows pale, 
'Tween now and then a veil is drawn, 

But kisses pass the veil. 
And oft by day with me there strolls 

In stealth an image frail. 
Although my flesh divides our souls. 

We kiss through fleshly veil. 
But when me waft the wings of sleep, 

I cease all waking wail, 
For side b-y side our ghosts then keep 

And* kiss through ghostly veil. 



583 



584 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX lY. 



CYCLET THE THIRD. 

1. 

In the hanging palace of Dreams, 
Whose marble is hewn of the cloud 

And whose dome so mistly gleams, 
I flit with the shadowy crowd. 

And there on an ivory throne 
Whose tint into air ever fades. 

With form half hid and half known 
Is sitting the King of the shades. 

The dreams rustle by at the door 
Like butterflies winging away. 

The shadows dart out and then soar; 
It seemeth a rainbow play. 

Abroad through the world they all roam, 
In search of a sleeper they seem, 

But I go down to their home, 
For I myself am a dream. 

In that palace of golden delight 
Is dwelling a dream of yore. 

In whose bosom my soul doth alight. 
The embrace is as sweet as before. 



Sweetest face, how can I fasten 

Thy fleet features to mine eye! 
If I look I see thee hasten. 

Ever gone yet ever nigh; 
As I turn around to greet thee 

Flees thy form into the haze. 
But I always quickly meet thee 

When I thoughtless go my ways. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 5g5 

Thy dear look doth o'er me hover 

If it is not by me sought, 
But if once I thee discover, 

Then thou turnest into nought; 
Only in thy cloudy garment 

When the senses are at rest 
I behold thee, or in raiment 

Wherewith dreams thy form have dressed. 

When I seek, I can not see thee. 

When I see, I seek thee not. 
Lovely image do not flee me. 

Float a moment o'er this spot! 
But from clouds I can not free thee, 

Nought thou hast of mortal lot. 
When I seek, I can not see thee, 

When I see, I seek thee not. 



I gazed on a falling star 

With its beautiful burning eye. 

Its train of diamonds afar 

Swept sparkling down the sky. 

Headlong it fell in the Sea 

Out of Heavens above. 
But quenched its blaze could not be, 

It was the star of Love. 

Old Ocean himself was fired 

When he felt that flame in his breast. 
He heaved and rolled and retired, 

Love, too, has stolen his rest. 

Though fallen is tne star 

And vacant its place in the sky. 

In his breast it is brighter by far 
Than when it was shining on high. 



586 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX IV. 



Whither goest, joyous vision, 

Dancing on yon dome of sky? 
Lookest oft in light derision 

At our Earth that rolleth nigh; 
Or on beds of down thou liest 

Which the clouds have made for thee. 
And their golden fringe suppliest 

From the Sun's bright tapestry. 

Whither goest, silent dreamlet. 

Nightly looking me to tears, 
Tears that form a sobbing streamlet 

Winding darkly through my years? 
Often have I sought to hold thee 

And my heart thy image make, 
But if once my arms enfold thee, 

Then, alas, I am awake. 

Vision, sunny must be heaven 
For me to behold thy face. 

And the tempest-cloud be riven 
To let through thy beams of grace; 

Dreamlet, that from death upspringest 
Where its darkness shrouds the urn. 

Thou of night thy being bringest. 
And to-night thou dost return. 



It is the Day of Love; 

What glow on high! 
The air is all one kiss 

From out the sky. 

It is the Day of Love; 

Tell me, oh why? 
The Heavens above look down 

One mild, blue eye. 



THE SOUUS JOURNEY. 5g7 

It is the Day of Love; 

Grief will not die, 
The breeze roves 'mid the hills 

One endless sigh. 

It is the Day of Love; 

A face draws nigh; 
I feel the kiss of one 

From out the sky. 

6. 
Notes are falling light and airy 

From the distant cloud, 
Of mine ear they seem so wary 

Scarcely are they loud; 
'Tis the roundel of a spirit 

Dropping from above, 
And the skies that redden near it 

Show a heart of love. 

Let me feel again that measure 

Breathing on mine ear; — 
But in vain I seek the treasure. 

Voice no more I hear; 
All to nought hath waned the sweetness 

When I wished it most, 
Flashed into my brain its fleetness 

Just as it was lost. 

Thought in other thought now merges 

"While I walk along; — 
Hark! in soft melodious surges 

Swells again that song; 
As I seek anew to listen 

Dies the cadence fond, 
And methinks I hear it hasten 

To its world beyond. 

So departs my tuneful fairy 

If I mark her aught 
Fades away the music airy 

At the ray of thought; 



588 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

If I think not I am near it 

Round my path it flows; 
But if once I know I hear it, 

Hear I but the close. 



A frozen fount of tears 

Had chilled mine eye, 
I saw its crystal jet 

Point toward the sky. 

Hushed were its murmurs low. 

It flowed no more, 
But ever swelled within 

Its body hoar. 

Then came along the Spring, 

And breathed soft. 
The Earth her mantle white 

Mid carols doffed. 

The crystal fount of tears 

To melt began. 
Ah, softened was the soil 

Through which they ran. 

And hot then gushed the stream 

From out that ice. 
Mine eye, too, overflowed 

With sudden rise. 



Out the cloud I see a finger 

Lightly touch a key; 
Sounds float o'er my head and linger. 

Music may it be? 
Now a voice comes winding faintly 

Through that melody. 
And I see an image saintly 

Ringing there to me. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 539 

Then of sound a shower golden 

Doth around me fall; 
'Tis a strain with burden olden 

That can never pall: 
How on earth a gentle maiden 

Lived a life serene, 
Had a heart with music laden 

Flowing o'er unseen; 

How betimes she did discover 

In a lonely wood, 
Him who was her chosen lover 

Where he silent stood; 
How her soul with fullness driven 

Burst into a strain. 
Telling of her spirit riven 

By the sweetest pain; 

How in one they had been moulded, 

Came a woeful day, 
Pate tore out two hearts enfolded. 

Bore hers then away. 
How she warbles now from Heaven, 

Soothes his soul to rest, 
And to him eternal given 

Is her image blest. 



The sweetest echoes are ringing 

Within mine ear. 
The air seems softly singing, 

My name I hear. 

I hasten to look around me. 
Whence came that voice? 

Thy face once more has found me, 
How I rejoice! 

Thou hast in newness arisen! 

I thought thee lost; 
My heart leaped out of its prison 

That shape to accost. 



590 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV, 

Is it life or the image adored, 

Ask me not this; 
I know that to me is restored 

Thy living kiss. 

But oh, the dream-god delusive 

Whisks her away. 
While into mine eye pries intrusive 

A morning ray. 



10. 

Image veiled of poesy, 

Search is vain for thy dim land. 
Yet unconscious if I he. 

In thy shadow there I stand; 
Covered in thy cloudy fold. 

By me are all secrets heard. 
If I ask to have them told. 

Then they vanish at a word. 

Hazy is thy welkin deep. 

Moonlit is thy silent sea. 
But the days forgotten keep 

Treasures buried there for me; 
Sweet embraces sunk in night. 

Forms that have been lost on earth, 
Rise again before my sight. 

Find a new, more glorious birth. 

When this upper world I leave, 

Sink I to that Paradise, 
There I meet my sainted Eve, 

All our faded moments rise; 
Then creeps knowledge, jealous snake, 

Spies our secret hiding-place. 
Flees the queen, my spirits wake, 

Eden fair dissolves to space. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 593^ 

11. 

Meseemed that I rested in slumber 

My head on a heaving breast, 
And listened to lays without number 

To my soul in music addressed. 

I hear the sweet songs without number 

In melody weirdly expressed, 
No words their motion encumber 

As the sound winds into my rest. 

No thoughts their feeling encumber, 
Pure soul of the heart in the breast. 

Whose notes entune me in slumber. 
As I lie in its music caressed. 

Oh rock me for aye in the slumber 

That murmurs the melody blest. 
And sings me the songs without number 

Reposing in dreams on thy breast. 



12. 

When into the realm forbidden 

Flees my soul from its own face, 
There it finds the image hidden 

Of thy soul to take its place; 
'Tis the features as I knew them 

With the voice of golden note. 
Long I turn intent to view them 

While on clouds of song I float. 

But my face to me returneth 

And I see myself again. 
Then thy soul my prayer spurneth. 

Will no more by me remain; 
So is fled the phantom airy 

If I but behold me there. 
Vanished is my realm of Fairy 

Though I seek it everywhere. 



592 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPEJ^DIX IV. 

Often hath deep longing bound me 

That I might become a trance, 
Loosened from the world around me 

And absolved from my own glance; 
If I know what I am doing 

Then the God doth cease to send, 
If I know I am pursuing, 

Oh despair, it is the end. 



13. 

A seraph flew down through the air. 
And alighted close to my side, 

A store of beauty he brought 

'Gainst sorrow my soul to provide. 

The crook of a shepherd he reached, 
When arose a peaceful strain. 

Of streams and mountains and sheep- 
But disgust was added to pain. 

As I turned away with a sigh, 
He put in my hand a bright sword, 

A song was soon heard in the air 
With a hurrying, clangorous word. 

The battle came on with its roar. 
The heroes great valor displayed, 

I listened awhile to the noise 
Then handed him back his blade. 

To weep the good seraph began 
As I turned again to depart. 

He stepped up behind me and laid 
To mine ear a throbbing heart. 

At once my body and soul 
Dissolved to a musical tear; 

Oh seraph, come down to my side 
And lay that heart to mine ear. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 593 



CYCLET THE FOURTH. 

1. 

Up rose a burning mountain 

Out of a human breast, 
The tears were a lava fountain 

That burnt their way from the crest. 

The eyes were a double crater 
That never ceased to flow. 

Their ruddy rivers grew greater 
While fiercer became their glow. 

The sides were made of tinder 
Enkindled and fanned with a sigh, 

And wherever there fell a cinder, 
Went up a tristful cry. 

But as those flames waxed hotter 
They seemed to burn up the sky; 

The mountain began to totter. 
In ashen repose it doth lie. 



2. 

My shallop was cutting the wave 
On the breast of the heaving lake, 

The moon was cutting the clouds, 
And gaily they danced in her wake. 

Her crescent canoe rode aloft 
Where the sun looks down at noon. 

Her oarsman was daring and deft. 
It was the man in the moon. 

I gazed on the luminous craft 

Till it seemed to descend to my side. 

Then I hailed that mariner bold 
As by me his pinnace did glide. 



594 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS-^APPENDIX IV. 

"Oh give me your place in your boat, 
I would rock in its rhythmical swoon"; 

"This crescent and I are one," 
Retorted the man in the moon. 

"Then a race to yon planet of love," 
I said as he raised his light oar; 

He sailed over the mountain top 
And I ran into the shore. 

3. 

It hissed and flashed and thundered, 
With sulphur was filled the air. 

The Heavens from Earth were sundered 
By a wall of flaming despair. 

In the blaze stood a smiting figure 
With the glare on his angry face. 

And ever his eyes grew bigger 

As he smote with his mighty mace. 

The Earth kept rolling and quaking 
That no one could firmly stand, 

Atlantean pillars were shaking 
Beneath his violent hand. 

Then burst the loudest thunder. 
But the figure no longer was seen. 

Still, Heaven and Earth were asunder. 
Though daylight lay between. 

I sought for that figure volcanic 
Where last was heard the sound, 

The Earth showed a grin Satanic — 
A fissure in the ground. 



I lay in the vale of Valveemir 
Sunk deep in a vision at noon. 

On a cloud stood the form of a dreamer. 
The rhythm he sang of a rune. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 595 

Then chanted that shade of the dreamer, 

A lyre softly touching- in tune; 
"I hope from beyond to redeem her. 

Restoring the heavenly boon; 

I long from beyond to redeem her," — 
The words seem his soul to attune; 

What makes thee so pallid, thou dreamer? 
To the cloud he sank in a swoon. 

Oft now in the vale of Valveemir, 

With longing I lie down at noon. 
Betimes I see darting that dreamer, 

But no longer I hear the wild rune. 

5. 
In Merlin's gloomy cave 

The magic word I sought 
That called men out of the grave 

And to his presence brought. 
The old enchanter came 

And told it in mine ear; 
I speak it just the same, 

The shadows then appear. 
Bright beings chant a song. 

The fairies flit around. 
The dead rise in a throng 

As when the trump shall sound. 
The golden visions dance 

Before my raptured eye. 
The world looks on in trance, 

Enchained by Poesy. 
She leads me with her lay, 

Out of the cave profound, 
The fairies dart away. 

The dead stay in the ground. 
Those rainbow dreams are gone. 

No more the strains are heard. 
The world goes heedless on 

And I have lost the word. 



596 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

6. 

To-day I have a pain 

N'er felt before. 
There is a something gone 

I would restore; 
I dreamed that I could dream 

Of thee no more. 

Oblivion's hand wiped out 

All time of yore. 
And Heaven shut its book 

Of starry lore; 
I dreamed that I could dream 

Of thee no more. 

Some fiend in mantle black 

Stepped in my door, 
My heart soon felt a blade 

Pierce to its core; 
I dreamed that I coul.d dream 

Of thee no more. 

It was as if dim shapes 

My body bore, 
Then with an earthen pall 

'Twas covered o'er; — 
I dreamed that I could dream 

Of thee no more. 



It is thy flesh I weep, 
The soul is safe I know. 

So when there comes thy face. 
My tears begin to flow. 

Yet Reason hath no tears. 
Nor feels she human pain 

For her there is no loss, 
For her there is but gain. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 

She is the all in all, 

And Death is but her fool, 
The mistress can not be 

Of her own slave the tool. 

But I am flesh myself, 
Thy body's what I miss. 

Oh let me see those eyes 
And give me back that kiss. 

I bathe in mine own heart 
Though Reason e'en be sad, 

I clasp thee out the grave, 
Though I go mad, go mad. 



Lovely Image, we must part. 
Long thou hast been at my side, 

But I feel now what thou art — 
Thou no more wilt here abide. 

Like thy body was art thou. 

Which once faded from my view. 

And of union broke the vow; 
Now there fades the image, too. 

Thou hast kept for many days 
In the patn of my rapt eye, 

And thou lookest through the rays 
When the sun shines out the sky. 

But the image, too, must sink 

Into dark forgetfulness, 
And the chain which it doth link 

Must be broken in distress. 

Lovely Image, we must part 

Though the soul has long been true, 
Though the tears begin to start, 

Lovely Image, now adieu, 



597 



598 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX lY. 

Part Third— Triumph of Reason 

CYCLET THE FIRST. 
1. 

I sailed past the portals of morning, 
And swept through the ocean of space. 

Its little worlds everywhere scorning, 
Beyond was directed my face. 

I sought for some mountainous wall 
The Universe has as its bourne. 

My mind was to scale it or fall 
Through the measureless aeons forlorn. 

Beyond it I thought I could find 
The lost one to me and to Earth, 

And her to my soul I would bind - 
And restore to the flesh of her birth. 

But that wall I always must climb 

When I to see her desire, 
Must slip out the trammels of Time 

And dwell in the spirits' puic fire. 

2. 

Oft now return those happy hours 
Which with thee once I passed. 

When I can rid me of the powers 
Wherewith sense binds me fast. 

For memory is a waking dream 
If nought without assail; 

Our lives again to live we seem 
Repeating o'er their tale. 

So when from flesh the soul is free 
And all to nought is hurled. 

Must memory be reality, 
The ever-present world. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. . 599 

3. 

My acts were true to thee in life, 

Affection never waned, 
But Fancy breaking loose at times 

The temple sore profaned. 

Against the image-making power 

I shouted oft a curse, 
When it has made my ideal world 

Than this below far worse. 

That power is now my sweetest boon 

For it brings back thy face, 
I speak with thee as one on whom 

Death can not leave his trace. 

Thy image springs before my step, 

The beams that fall so chaste 
Transmute my heart to be as thine, 

All earthy thoughts erased. 

Thy soul I mould into myself. 

Then can I dwell with thee; 
Then is for me thy presence dear 

An immortality. 



. 4. 

The plastic god of old 

Dwelt in thy soul, 
Though broken is his form 

Aud dust his stole. 

He mused thus to himself: 
"Enough of stone — 

I'll be a god within. 

Have there my throne." 

He fashioned for himself 

A statue rare, 
Not hewn of marble white. 

So chill, so fair. 



600 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX JV. 

His marble was thy soul. 

He gave it form, 
A form most beautiful. 

But it was warm. 



Maria held her child, 

Saw rapt as if in trance, 

Upon the future world 
Was fixed her anxious glance. 

The love for her dear boy 
In every feature stood. 

And men in her adored 
Eternal motherhood. 

She was a virgin, too; 

We shrug now at the deed. 
Mother and virgin, too, 

Is not our present creed. 

Maria is the wife 

United by strict rite. 
And living in the heart 

Of which she has the plight. 

She is the mother sweet 
For joy lost in her child. 

The wife and mother, too, 
With looks so heavenly mild. 

Maria, thou art gone 

Who wast the Holy Wife, 

The Holy Mother, too, 
I worship now thy life. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. gQ^ 

6. 

Wh-at can I keep of thee, 

Demands my troubled thought; 
For that sweet face which smiled on me 

Must soon fall into nought. 

What token didst thou leave 

For my eternal boon? 
I know thy frame has no reprieve. 

Is waning like the moon. 

Will aught of thine remain 

For me and for the race? 
Tne musty earth where thou hast lain 

Will merely show a trace. 

Thy deathless part I pine 

Which shone through earthy frame; 
I seek to make it wholly mine 

And make us both the same. 



7. 

Th' eternal woman lived in thee 

In highest, purest form. 
In all thy acts we did her see 

Whom flesh can ne'er deform. 

Thou wast th' eternal wife divine, 
The type that can't depart. 

In deepest unity with mine 
Was closely knit thy heart. 

Thou wast th' eternal mother true 
Whose life was in thy child; 

What ages in Madonna view 
Shone out thy face so mild. 

But no, th' Eternal is, not was, 

The Mother is not dead. 
The wife still to her bosom draws 

And soothes my feverish head. 



602 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

Th' eternal woman lives in thee 
And glows with rays of love. 

She casts her wonted smile on me 
From all around, above. 

And though thy body turn to dust , 
Thou art my half, my whole, 

Disrobed of all the earthy crust. 
Transfigured to pure soul. 

8. 

I would not have a priest 
O'er thy dead shape to tell 

Of sinners' torments dire 
Damned to the fires of hell. 

Nor should he dare narrate 

That Oriental dream 
Which makes a Heaven of sense. 

Of things that merely seem. 

He should not speak of Faith 
In his or others' whim, 

Offering eternal bliss 
To those who think like him. 

Thou hast no Heaven nor Hell 
As thy dear life I knew. 

No creed cooped up thy soul 
Obstructing its sweet dew. 

Thou wast the God himself 

In all that is divine; 
Why search the dark Beyond 

For what's already thine? 

9. 

A wretched solace must that be 
Which rests upon a lie, 

Foregoing manhood's brightest crown 
To put to flight a sigh. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 

I know thy flesh is burning up 

In elemental fire, 
I can not think thy frame will rise 

From out that funeral pyre. 

The world beyond is not of sense 

Repeating just what's here, 
To Faith I will not sell my soul 

That I may dry a tear. 

Thy soothing hand, thy proffered lip. 

Thy loving eyes' soft beam 
Are dust, and only can be real 

When I myself am dream. 

Yet something lit and ruled thy shape 

Beyond the senses' strife, 
Thy spirit was the God himself 

And Heaven was thy life. 

10. 

The desire came o'er me so strong 
To imbreathe thy breathless clod, 

I unconsciously fell on my knees 
And fervently prayed to God. 

Soon I felt myself rising aloft, 
I passed all the stars of the night, 

Till I stepped on the heavenly hill 

Whence the Earth is lost to the sight. 

And there sat a kindly old man 
On a throne of luminous gold, 

His beard was hoary and long 
His forehead had many a fold. 

Upon me he cast his mild eye 
And spake with so gentle an air: 

Hearken, my son, to my words, 
I am the God of thy prayer. 



603 



604 A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV, 

I have had thee borne up to my throne, 
For to Earth I descend no more, 

I never had many friends there 
And now have less than before. 

I have ceased my personal sway 

During this many a year, 
And no longer in worldly affairs 

I directly interfere. 

But a system of laws I have made 
Which are always supreme and the same. 

And these now govern the world 
Both with and without my name. 

It is true that long, long ago 
Far different was my vocation, 

I did nought but fulfill their desires 
For whom I had inclination. 

In my youth I came oft down to Earth, 
And of men I e'en was a guest, 

But six thousand years of trouble 
Have made me long for rest. 

Sad son, thy prayer give o'er. 
For whatever lives must die; 

Pray not that the universe be 
For sake of thy sorrow a lie. 

In reason alone ends thy hope. 
Nor think thyself to be friendless: 

The world would crumble to-day 
If the transient were once made endless. 

Strange words, thought I when he ceased. 
To come from lips supreme; 

If they had been said by a man, 
I had boldly replied — You blaspheme. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. gQS 

11. 

Dear friend, you have spoken of angels 

Who are watching now at our side, 
Among them you say is the spirit 

Of that bright being who died. 
It is true, for I see those angels 

And repose in their beauteous gleam, 
But then you dream and don't know it, 

I dream and know that I dream. 

You have told me of the departed, 

You say they shall meet us again, 
With every member restored, 

Yet freed of the bodily stain. 
Oh, yes, I behold those dear shadows 

And live in their eyes' gentle beam; 
Dear friend, you dream and don't know it, 

I dream and know that I dream. 

You have also described a bright heaven 

Where is the sweet haven of rest. 
And you say, there forever united 

Shall we be with those who are blest; 
'Tis true, I believe in that Heaven, 

Within its fair fields I now seem, 
But ah, you dream and don't know it, 

I dream and know that I dream. 

You cite me the words of the Scripture 

Which the purest of truth you deem, 
Yet the Bible is a deep vision 

And calls itself often a dream; 
I, too, shall retain my Bible 

And bathe in its shadowy stream. 
Still, friend, you dream and don't know it, 

I dream and know that I dream. 



506 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 



CYCLET THE SECOND. 

1. 

Oh Nature sweet, methinks to-day I love thee more 

Than ever I have loved a look of thine before; 

I often ask why now to me thou art so blest, 

But 'tis not what thou art, but what thou lowly sayst. 

I see them nod their heads, the giants of the grove. 
And in their company I go alone to rove, 
For then they chant a lay whose notes before unheard 
More deeply move the soul than any spoken word. 

I see them glance at me the maidens of the mead, 
From yellow-kirtled sunflower down to the homely reed. 
But thou, the many-flounced. Oh rose the queen thou art 
Whose blushing whisper strikes the music of the heart. 

I see them float above, the angels of the air, 
In snowy vestments clad, with pinions white and fair. 
Far down the sky they sweep until the eye grows dim, 
While of the Great Beyond is heard their holy hymn. 

'Tis not the form alone whose beauty should be seen. 
The spirit must be heard beneath the outer sheen. 
No mute thou art, Oh Nature, with a Visage fair. 
Thou hast a mystic voice that hymns upon the air. 

Oh no, 'tis not thy suit of vernal velvet green, 
Nor all thy fairy robes in Autumn brightly seen. 
Not any form sublime or sunlit hue of dress, — 
Not these alone, but what these all to me express. 

For when thy beauteous front I thoughtless glance along, 
At once within me moves a voiceless rhythm of song. 
But when I look anew unfolding all thy scroll. 
On then I stand and gaze upon my very soul. 



THE 80UU8 JOURNEY. QQrj 

2. 

Whatever music you may thrill 

The earth or sky around, 
Concordant to the mood within 

Its notes are ever found. 

A thousand voices Nature hath 

That whisper low and loud, 
Revealing what lies hid beneath 

The deep unconscious cloud. 

She is the rising, setting sun, 

As well the calm as storm. 
She is another to herself, 

A Janus-headed form. 

A varied music is her speech. 

Still music deep and true; 
Its harmony you seek to find — - 

The key-note lies in you. 



Oh roses that dream in the sun, 
Arouse from your fragrant sleep; 

My heart by your passion is won. 
And in wild longing doth leap. 

Your buds of bright red from the spray 
Gush out like drops from the heart; 

Is it love o'erflowing in play, 
Or is it a wound's bloody smart? 

The Sun doth soothe you to rest, 
And round you more warm is his beam; 

See the flame dart up in each breast! 
I know that of love is your dream. 

More scarlet is turning the rose. 
And darker is colored its stain; 

'Tis sending out blood in its throes, — 
Now I feel its dream is of pain. 



g08 A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

Oh roses that bleed with the kiss 
That falls in the Sun's golden rain, 

Your passion is love's sweetest bliss, 
Yet oh, your passion is pain. 



4. 

I glance aloft into the sky 

And there behold a fleecy cloud; 

It is a robe to deck a bride, 
Oh no, it is a shroud. 

I hear a warbler in the wood, 

The trees are trilling with his strain; 

His joy runs out the tiny beak. 
Oh no, it is his pain. 

The Sun looks down upon the world 
As he pursues his radiant race; 

What peace he spreads along his way! 
What rage is in his face! 

The lightnings flash, the thunders crash, 
The warrior battling, holds his breath; 

It is his victory presaged, 
But no, it is his death. 

Sly Nature hath a double tongue, 

She also hath a double face, 
She tells two stories to the friend 

Who seeks her fair embrace. 

And whether he have weal or woe 

The change from out her face hath shone; 

Though manifold may be her look, 
Her sympathy is one. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 



Dear Poet, I love your sweet music, 

You say it is sung from the trees, 
That hymn the soft tones of a language 

Borne light to your ear on the breeze; 
I, too, can hear the low roundel 

So mildly diffusing its cheer. 
But you hear yourself and don't know it, 

I hear me and know that I hear. 

Dear Poet, I love your wild story 

That rose on your raptured eye 
In golden letters gigantic 

There written above on the sky; 
I, too, behold the bright symbols, 

A Fairy once gave me their key, 
'Tis yourself you see and don't know it, 

I see me and know that I see. 

Dear Poet, I love the fair image, 

That comes at the might of your spell, 
From its home in a limitless ocean 

Where the Past and the Future dwell ; 
I, too, call up a dear shadow 

Whose shape from mine eye cannot fade, 
You see your own phantom unconscious, 

Ah mine, I know 'tis a shade. 

Oh Poet, illustrious master 

Of music and fable inwrought. 
Sink down in your domain romantic 

And leave the colorless thought; 
'Tis not a rude boast or a triumph, 

'Tis your greatness and giory for me 
That you see your soul and don't know it, 

While mine I know that I see. 



609 



39 



'610 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 



CYCLET THE THIRD. 
1. 
You say I have destroyed the world 
And future life to chaos hurled. 
Because I think the image sweet 
Is all that I can ever meet 
Of her who has now passed away, 
Howe'er I long and sing and pray. 

The highest truth for you is sense, 
Its loss leaves you in darkness dense; 
You would maintain the soul of man 
Is quite the beastly Caliban. 
I have but said the flesh doth rot 
And restoration there is not 
For it when burnt to elements; — 
Death is the end of body and sense; 
If not, there can not be a death, 
For what then dies at loss of breath? 
Methinks you place your flesh far higher 
Than mind in its divinest fire. 

But images are born of mind, 

The senses then they leave behind, 

They strip the flesh of all its clay. 

The form remains of purest ray. 

If in imagination we can be 

'Tis higher than reality 

Which always grovels on the earth. 

Ne'er rising to the second birth 

Whose child leaps forth the image bright 

Diffusing the serenest light. 

The image is the shape sublime. 
Eternal, lying out of Time; 
In worth life comes not near it, 
Life dies, is not of spirit. 
Nought can its vision pure assail 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. QH 

While you in mental might prevail; 
Its world exists more firm and sure 
And longer must for man endure 
Than what decays at every breath 
Down crouching at the glance of Death. 



A compromise is often made 
Betwixt the substance and the shade; 
A hybrid phantom springs from thence 
Which seeks to save corporeal sense; 
By no such mixture be deceived, 
'Tis true that men have oft believed, 
There is some subtle, half-way mean. 
The body and the mind between 
Which has of sense whate'er is real 
Of spirit all that is ideal; 
This part, 'tis said, survives our frame, 
Yet has the senses all the same; 
More of its nature they cannot tell. 
But they believe it just as well. 

Now if one seeks what this may be 
Which vaguely through the dark they see, 
It is the image, nought beside; 
Flesh can not rot and then abide; 
For what is left from death is mind 
Freed from its perishable rind. 
Vain is thy search, if thou hast sought 
Some mental flesh or fleshy thought. 



•3. 
Our longing drives us to create 
Like this our life the future state; 
Between the two is but a breath 
Which breathed out is titled Death; 
A little step the boundary o'er, 
Then all is as it was before; 



512 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

And when this limit we have passed 

There are no more, it is the last. 

A balm to loss is thus applied, 

A few short years at most we bide. 

Then travel we the self-same way, 

With the beloved dead to stay; 

We speak and hear the spoken word. 

We have our senses all restored, 

And the relations of our life 

Are given back without their strife. 

But yet this thought its force will keep: 
Our bodies are an ashen heap; — 
Where is mine eye to see her face, 
Her flesh to fill my fond embrace, 
Mine ear to which her tones must reach 
Her tongue to move the airy speech, 
And whence proceeds the mystic light 
Which shines upon a sunless night? 

I know the things which Faith demands: 

I must hereafter touch her hands. 

Must draw to my embrance her form. 

And feel her body even warm; 

The future world is just the same 

As life here is in fleshy frame. 

Dear friend, to state the matter plain, 

This is a figment of your brain; 

It is an image which you take 

From Past and it the Future make. 

Such a belief may quell our sighs 
As from the heart's recess they rise, 
And give the troubled mind repose 
By keeping under what it knows. 
But manhood thus must quickly die 
Smothered in the soul beneath a lie. 
Conviction sold to dry a tear 
By heaven, is a price too dear. 



THE 80UU8 JOURNEY. g^g 

Truth must be followed to the end, 
E'en though a man to Hell it send; 
Ot all the lies on human scroll 
The worst is that to one's own soul. 

Whatever may hereafter be, 

To this, methinks, you Avill agree, 

That now for us the future state 

An image is at any rate. 

But if this Now alone endures 

It only images assures; 

What you imagine, that must be 

An image, not reality; 

So you, continuing, 'tis clear 

The image doth remain as here. 

Think not this argument is made 
The future world aught to degrade, 
The realm of shades is far more true 
Than what with eyes I daily view; 
The tools of flesh, touch, hearing, taste. 
Smell, sight, show but a fleeting waste; 
Let what is false away be thrown. 
Then that which is can well be known; 
The spirit-world has one defense: 
The image is more true than sense. 

4. 
But the objection may occur 
The image is for me, not her. 
It lies vv^ithin my mind alone 
Meanwhile to her it is unknown. 
Let me reply, you can not tell, 
This image she may have as well; 
She has a mind and it is free. 
And all belongs to her as me. 

Such ground of doubt doth spring from sense 
And it derives its force from thence; 
For sense doth make our being twain. 
While mind restores to one again, 



614 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX lY. 

To see her with my bodily eye, 
We are apart, and so we die. 
What separates is finite, small. 
The unit is eternal, all; 
Flesh marks our limits, each to each. 
The end is death, whereto they reach. 

See how the image is far more, — 
Grasp now this thought within its core; 
The image is both she and I, 
Both are each other ever nigh, 
Unbidden oft she doth appear 
And hidden always she is here. 
Our life returns quite as it was. 
The same delight without the flaws, 
I move within her sphere again, 
I hear its music's gladdest strain: 
Call it not heaven which is to be. 
It was, it is, remains with me. 
She lacks the flesh as I have said, 
I want it not, for it is dead. 



What if I die, or her forget, 
Is the image lost, or lives it yet? 
Perchance it seems to have been taught 
That she depends upon my thought. 
Now must we higher far ascend 
Futurity to comprehend; 
Imagination can not give 
The reason why the soul must live. 

From the outside what can be smitten 
Has on it Death most plainly written; 
And so the body sinks to clay 
And sensuous things speed soon away. 
But that which spans the universe 
Can not be held in any hearse; 
What may exist outside the All, 
Which shall assail, or it enthrall? 



THE SOUUS JOURNEY. Ql^ 

Whatever thinks can never die, 
Else thought is in itself a lie, 
For thought the universal knows 
And has all bounds within its close. 
Death to destroy is this: to think; 
All limits thus to nothing sink; 
The deepest word the spirit saith 
Is Thought, which is the death of Death. 

To me the image disappears 
When I am gone, or dried my tears; 
But future life rests not on me 
She is, though her I may not see. 
Objective is her form and true 
Existent without me or you. 
But that we may communicate 
When v/e are in the fieshless state, 
Or what may be our true relation. 
Thereof is given no demonstration. 



Why should you make the world to come 
Of all the glories the full sum? 
My heaven lies in the Past as well, 
It is the world in which I dwell. 
My life with her is what has been. 
In flesh her body dear was then. 
Now 'tis an image and will stay 
An image lit with spirit's ray; 
Into the Now new-born, the Past's 
Dead form, with mind eternized, lasts. 

To hope what once has been, will be 
Is hope and not reality. 
Into the Future why thrust the Past? 
That can not make its presence last. 
Say 'tis the Past and then be done, 
So for your thought the truth is won. 
But neither Future nor the Past 
Is that which holds our swaying fast; 



QIQ A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

The one we know has never been, 
The other ne'er will be again. 
Both are of shapes the most inane, 
Their sole pursuit leaves man insane. 
The Now alone we have, forsooth, 
The Now alone reveals the truth. 
Now is Heaven, now is Hell, 
Both are raised by thine own spell. 
Now all the things which once have been 
Come up before the mind of men; 
Eternal is the Now and true. 
Now springs her image to my view. 

This is the restoration dear 

Of her for whom I dropped the tear. 

When separate our flesh was torn 

And the whole world became forlorn. 

Of her the individual 

All this remains, and this is all. 

CYCLET THE FOURTH. 

1. 
Ah Reader, dry are now my words 

And dry, too, is my thought, 
No more I seek the magic spell 

Which heretofore I sought. 

The tuneful rhythm is heard no more 

And Poesy has fled. 
For imageless the v/ord falls down 

As soon as it is said. 

The realm of dreams is under ban 
In which I moved before. 

And Fancy has been left behind 
With all her gaudy store. 

The world of images is past 

And of emotion, too. 
For Reason is without a tear. 

Without a shape to view, 



THE SOUL' 8 JOURNEY. Ql^ 

Poetic forms are broken here 

In this domain of thought, 
Their beauteous light leads but astray 

Into the slough of nought. 

The pictured Past or Future e'en 

Can not be Truth supreme, 
They are not real, eternal not, 

O quit thy fruitless dream. 



The broken bond I seek to keep. 
Though thou art in the grave. 

Each link I daily burnish bright. 
With tears our Past I lave. 

I have called up a world of shades 

Wherein I dwell with thee, 
Thine image is my dearest mate, 

Which lives and moves with me. 

I throw away my conscious self, 

I pray to be a dream. 
That I may never feel or know 

I am not what I seem. 

A restoration sweet it is. 

Its nothingness I will not think. 

To me is given thy form anew, 
And bound the broken link. 

But now there comes a throb of doubt 

As weeping I awake, 
Is this the all to be restored 

Of the true bond that brake? 



The imaged world in which I dwelt. 
And then of which I sougnt defense, 

Giving to it the prop of thought. 
Its pageant placing over sense, 



618 A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

I feel, indeed, I must renounce 
As that which shows the end supreme, 

A reconciliation true 
It had, but truest not, I deem. 

'It is now time to seek return 
Unto the world in which we live;" 

So Reason whispers in the ear 
Offering her final boon to give. 

"For ail that thou hast truly lost 
Lies here before thy mental eye. 

Here is thy triumph over Fate 

And here thy lordship o'er the sky. 

Still, do not think this is the Real 

Which we have scoffed and left behind; 

'Tis not the sensuous world alone, 
But radiant everywhere with mind. 

A new reality it is 

Which now within the world shall dawn, 
Reality it needs must be, 

Yet filled with all that once seemed gone.' 



4. 

Her flesh is gone beyond return, 
Of soul the shriveled crust. 

Her body must be given up, 
I knoAV that it is dust. 

But the one person can not form 
The bond entire of man, 

It is the bond which still controls 
If we the world but scan. 

What will endure is not this one 
Which changes soon and dies. 

And then another takes its place, 
The njisslng one supplies, 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. g^g 

What here abides, 'tis plain to see, 

Can be nor I nor you, 
But the relation liveth on. 

Than we more strong and true. 

And so the world still goes its way, 

The institutions last, 
But you and I are instruments 

Whose time is quickly past. 

In sooth we are but as we serve, 

Take hold and do not slack. 
If we refuse or fail or fall, 

Another 's in our track. 



5. 

Religion fills the breast with hope 
And paints the future state, 

It promises in Heaven to heal 
The deepest wound of Fate. 

There too, it says, shall be restored 
The children, husband, wife. 

And all the dearest ties of blood 
Just as they were in life. 

But yet the thing of Hope is not. 

It always is to be, 
The promise can not be the Real 

Sunk in Futurity. 

Shall I offend when I must call 
That future realm a dream, 

It is not now and never was; 
What then but Fancy's gleam? 

Whatever weal may be above 

Let it not rest a name, 
But realize this thought of good, 

And give to Earth the same. 



620 '^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

The bond of love in Heaven's home, 
Death shall not separate; 

Eternal, too, it should be made 
In this, our present state. 

But different is the earthly means 

For restoration ta'en; 
The missing member is renewed. 

The bond doth then remain. 



6. 

Imaginary is the form 

Which the dim image brings, 
Unreal are all the dreamy shapes 

Whereof the Poet sings. 

But real is this life of ours, 

And real is our thought, 
Pursuit can not restore the dead, 

The Past can not be caught. 

The universal chain is made 

Of many single links. 
The chain remains, the links must change. 

As flesh to nothing sinks. 

Thus Reason speaks: I am the whole, 

The true Eternal One, 
Which is renewed through Death alone. 

By Death is Death undone. 

But the Eternal is not Past, 

Not Future's dim Ideal, 
It is the Now in its full right. 

The Eternal is the Real. 

All else is but a promise false, 

A hope that's unfulfilled. 
The hunger of the human soul 

Is by the Present stilled. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 

Nor yet this Present which is meant 
Can be life's sensuous trance; 

It must be ruled and filled with mind, 
Else 'tis a phantom-dance. 



7. 

Death comes and tears the bond in twain. 
Removes the living from the sight; 

Emotion ploughs the breast with sobs, 
And all the world flies into night. 

Next out the darkness steps a form 
Which to the soul deep raptures saith; 

It seems as if all is restored; 
The Image triumphs over Death. 

But then this shape begins to fade, 
And e'en to flee what once it sought; 

Return we must into the world. 

Now last the Image yields to Thought. 



I heard the world to swear 

In silent vow, 
The Future must be turned 

Into the Now. 

The Holy Promise paid 

Must be to-day, 
Too long we have endured 

The false delay. 

Hope must fruition be 

Whose horn is full, 
And to the Real must change 

The Possible. 



621 



022 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

To life the Image vain 

Must quickly leap. 
The dream and v/aking, too, 
One shape must keep. 

To knowledge, brightest sun, 

All Faith must rise. 
Yet seek the world below 

And not the skies. 

The day of Judgment, too, 

Is every day, 
The judge sits now to hear 

What you may say. 

The deed must be the creed 

Which is not said, 
And life an endless prayer 

Which is not prayed. 

God has become a man 

And Death a Birth, 
Let Heaven now fall down 

Upon the Earth. 

AFTERGLOWS. 

1. 

Golden Hours, rise once more 

Out your home within the deep, 

Bring along the holy love 
That ye in your bosom keep. 

I^et me have again that night 
When so oft I passed her door, 

Stalking like a pallid sprite — 
Love — I knew it not before. 

Give me not my times of bliss. 
For I long to think and weep, 

Give me not what most I miss, 
In some lesser pain me steep. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. g23 

Show me but again that Moon 

Swiftly trailing through the sky, 
Till she sank away too soon, 

Left me standing there to sigh. 

Golden Hours, rise again 

Out your silent sunken sea. 
Steep me in some lesser pain, 

Golden Hours, come back to me. 



The Moon has a piteous glance, 
She looks down out of the sky. 

With f^ce so haggard and thin 
She seemeth ready to cry. 

Her light is waning and wan, 

Enshrouding the meadow and mere. 

Her beam is shorn of its sheen 

For her eye is suffilsed with a tear. 

No more in her mirror the lake, 

She watches her features so proud, 

But darkly she clasps to her face 
The veil of the passing cloud. 

I gaze on her fair distress, 

A melody wails in my ears, 
And attuned to the dolorous strain 

Is the musical spell of the spheres. 

O weep not, beautiful Moon, 

Thy mate has sunk under the sea, 

And long 'mid the stars wilt thou roam, 
Ere he be restored to thee. 

Down under the sea he has gone, 
Thou never wilt reach his embrace, 

But turn thy look to his light. 
And he will illumine thy face. 



G24 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX IV. 



The moonshine is witching the world, 
Entranced in a dreamy hue, 

All things have turned to a shade 
And I am a shadow, too . 

We greet in that silvery shower, 
My own dear shadow and I, 

And though but one soul there is, 
Two bodies appear to be nigh. 

So confidingly we talk on the way, 
Rehearsing times that are fled, 

A memory lorn we are. 

For both belong to the dead. 

Each tells of the other's fate, 

Which also is his own; 
Beneath that spectral light 

How ghostly the winds do moan. 

Each shade for the other doth weep 
And slowly fades to a swoon, 

Still hovers over that spot 
The glimmering sheen of the Moon. 



Deceive me not, thou pretty flower, 
What thou hast said I heard. 

But yet my tongue has not the power 
To speak again thy word. 

That warble, too, I understood. 

Thou poet of a bird, 
And oh, I wish in rhyme I could 

Translate thy throbbing word. 

The stars throw glances all the night 
And Heaven with love is stirred. 

They talk and sing by their own light, 
A starry kind of word. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. 

In madding throbs the heart doth speak 

Of happiness deferred, 
To put the throbs in verse I seek. 

But I have not the word. 

A vision hymns within my sleep, 

A roundel here unheard, 
That singing dream I fain would keep. 

But I have not the word. 



"I wish I were a star 
Along the milky way. 

All night I then could shine, 
And slumber all the day. 

No harm it is in Heaven 
To cast your sweetest glance. 

And nightly on its floor 
There is a fancy dance. 

Ten thousand gallant beaux, 
All scattered round the skies. 

Are pouring streams of love 
From out their burning eyes. 

Of sparks there seems to be 

An entire universe, 
And none I need to take 

For better or for worse. 

Oh think how many flames 
With love's red passion fired, 

A new one I could have 
Whenever I am tired. 

They ogle now at me, 
I e'en can hear them call, 

My grenadine I'll take 
And eke my waterfall. 



625 



626 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX IV. 

At church the preacher tells 

Of Heaven's happy hall, 
Oh, then, I dream the bliss 

Of one eternal ball." 

I heard a maiden hum 

Her heart into this strain, 
She hummed my tears to smiles, 

So hum I it again. 

6. 

At night I saunter along, 

Filled full of the olden strain, 

And here is my shadow, too, 
Now ready to speak again. 

"Of late so often to me 

Thou eomest thy dreams to rehearse, 
Of ghostly tales I am tired. 

Besides they are always in verse. 

Dim spectre of air, begone. 

Too long I have been thy host, 

Of all the plagues in the world 
The worst is a rhyming ghost." 

"Dear half," my shadow replied, 
"Dear body without any soul. 

Know thou art not even the half 
Of which I am the whole. 

To dust at once if thou wilt. 

But I shall forever remain," 
And then there swam on the air 

The chime of the olden strain. 



Yestreen broke out a dispute 
Between my shadow and me, 

Mine own pale ghost turned red 
With angry rivalry. 



THE SOUL'S JOURNEY. ^27 

It was an ancient dispute 

That long has divided mankind, 
It seems to have been about 

The nature of body and mind. 

I know that between the twain 

A horrible discord was made, 
Each shouting himself to be 

The substance and not the shade. 

I can not now tell the first word 

Or how the matter began, 
But at last it came to the point 

Of who was the better man. 

While each was preparing his blow 

The Moon went under a hill, 
Then both the shadows were gone, 

But I hear them debating still. 



8. 

Ah, there they cluster on a mound, 

Geraniums, Geraniums, 
And all around they are around, 

A million red Geraniums; 
So blithe and sunny is the day. 
The crimson flowers seem at play. 
And like a mighty heart they lay, 

A mountain of Geraniums. 

But now behold, they move, they move, 

Geraniums, Geraniums, 
As swelled the deep, warm pulse of love. 

Amid the red Geraniums. 
It is one flower from edge to crest 
Which Sol hath nestled in his breast, 
His gentle rays calm it to rest, — 

That heart of red Geraniums. 



628 -^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX IV. 

But list the breeze, it comes to woo 

Geraniums, Geraniums, 
His kiss doth sway them fro and to, 

The forest of Geraniums; 
And dancing with his piping strain, 
They bow to him and bow again. 
His whisper they to hear are fain, 

The radiant red Geraniums. 

And still they move upon the mound. 

Geraniums, Geraniums, 
The wave goes round and round and round 

In ridges of Geraniums; 
And with the wave around the mound. 
There flows a harmony profound. 
That makes the heart within rebound 

To heart of red Geraniums, 



APPENDIX V. 

THE LITERARY BIBLES. 

My occupation with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare and 
Goethe, the four greatest books of European Literature, 
called Literary Bibles, to which I have devoted such a 
considerable portion of my life, goes back for its dis- 
tinctive starting point to my High School work, specially 
in Shakespeare. My chief activity in this whole field 
took place after I had returned from abroad, and hence 
lies beyond the limits of the present book. Still it 
may not be out of place to indicate the main lines on 
which this work evolved, as far as I was concerned 
with it, from its early germ. 

First, by means of private classes in these authors. 
Such classes I had chiefly in St. Louis and Chicago, 
but they extended to at least twenty other places in 
the West, and once or twice penetrated to several cities 
of the eastern States. 

Secondly, through the so-called Literary Schools de- 
voted to these same four supreme works of Literature. 
Such schools continued practically one week, during 
which ten lectures were given to the general public 
on one of the Literary Bibles by the best specialists 
that could be obtained. At Chicago eight of these 
schools were held in eight successive years; twice we 
went the round of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare and 
Goethe (from 1887-1895). During this time St. Louis 
had nearly as many literary schools on the same sub- 
jects, the lecturers usually passing from one city to 
the other. The attempt was to rouse in the community 
an interest in Great Literature. 

Thirdly, the written Commentaries on the Literary 
Bibles were elaborated and printed during these same 
years, the last one being the Commentary on the 
Odyssey, which appeared in 1897 (the first one, that on 

(629) 



630 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX V. 

Shakespeare, was printed in 1877). To be sure, dur- 
ing these twenty years other literary lines were carried 
along. 

Fourthly, the attempt was made to construe poetic- 
ally each one of these Greatest Poets, and to set forth 
his life and development in verse, as revealed by him- 
self in his highest moments. That is, the object was 
to put together out of his works the total man in his 
spiritual outline and genesis, making the whole into a 
kind of heroic poem, if possible, v/ith the poet as hero. 
I never finished any of these plans, with any degree of 
completeness but one, namely, the book called Homer 
in Chios, a little Homeric epopee in hexameter. The 
Goethe Schools stimulated me to give a construction of 
Goethe's life and evolution in the form of an ode, which 
has had three redactions, the last being found in an 
Appendix to the new edition of Goethe's Faust, Part I. 
The poem on Dante, intending to show Dante's inner 
development from all his works in prose and verse, I 
never succeeded in getting into shape, though I find 
among my papers considerable fragments on this topic, 
which, written some twenty years ago, show my 
wrestlings with the material. Finally the drama of 
the total Shakespeare was conceived, but has remained 
unachieved, though many suggestions for it lie scattered 
both in my print and in, my mind. Still, under the spur 
of the first Shakespeare School, held in 1889, at Chicago, 
I wrought out the following idea in blank verse — a 
fantasia it might be called, perhaps — and read the same 
on that occasion, as well as at the later Shakespeare 
School of 1892, under the title of Shakespeare at Strat- 
ford. It may be added, for the sake of explanation, that 
two of the edifices mentioned in the last pages of the 
poem (the City Hall and the Board of Trade) have been 
quite transformed from their old characteristics, and 
that the third structure (the former Art Museum, in 
which the Literary School was held) is, according to 
report, vanishing or is to vanish into a High Building. 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 



631 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 

I. 

"Free, happy Avon, ramble through the meadow; 
Go, babble with the sunbeams on thy path, 
'And sing thy strain along the sedgy brink, 
"Keyed to the morning's golden harmony. 
"Let every ripple break to buoyant v/ords, 
"That link this stream together in a verse 
"Hummed softly to the ear of listening day, 
"Sending a distant music on the air, 
"Elusive undertones of tuneful joys, 
"Responsive to my mood of liberation. 
"The river all shall run to shining speech 
"Beginning with the fountains in the hills, 
"And winding through the valleys and the woods, 
"Until it writes itself in characters; 
"Behold the Avon making on its course, 
"A wavy line of silvery poesy, 

"That sparkles far through forest and green fields, 
"With many a tremulous trill and tortuous turn, 
"Singing the land along until it joins 
"The mighty chorus of the sounding sea, 
"Where it doth meet the thunders of the wave 
"Reverberating on these English shores, 
"Which answer back my own triumphant voice: 
" 'I am now free.' " 

Thus William Shakespeare spoke 
As once he stood upon the banks of Avon, 
And glanced far up the little stream and down, 
In sight to arch beginning and the end. 
As if that rivulet might be a life. 
Already more than fifty years filled full 
Of song had sped, and brought him to the brink 
Of that great river where the mortal eye 
Looks from the little bridge of days that span 
The going Now into the coming Then — 
Looks longing back through magnifying tears 



532 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX Y. 

On the dead past, but soon doth turn about 

And forward peer into the ghostly future. 

The sphere-encircling tide of Time had whirled 

The poet round the spirit's universe, 

And landed him again upon the shore 

Where he was born, ere yet the evening sun 

Had dropped behind the hills into the sea. 

He stood, in tune to pensive retrospection. 

And watched the waters whirling merrily 

In liquid dance and eddying song 

As they ran by, sent from the primal fountains. 

They started in his mind a rhythmic tread. 

And made him measure all his rambling thoughts, 

His lightest flash and deepest reach of soul. 

Unto the dainty beat of up and down. 

Which every wavelet nodded to the master. 

His fancies high, out of the rainbow spun, 

And Vv^oven into many-colored clouds, 

Went fleeting through the far, translucent skies. 

Unto the echo caught from Avon's song. 

His feelings, from their w^ell-head in his soul 

Shot ■ up big v/ater-drops around his eyes. 

To palpitation of the river's heart. 

His humors too, and odd fantastic quirks 

Ran laughing through the land unto the spell 

Of merry undulation in the stream. 

Long had he stood, to a still music moved. 

He heard deep Nature's silent joyousness. 

He felt high Heaven's holy earnestness, 

Attuned to spirit's voiceless melodies; 

And his own silence was a poem, too. 

Dictated by the measurer unseen 

Who charms the surges of our inner sea 

Into a wild unspoken rhythm of soul. 

Until it cannot hold its swelling self 

Within its lone and silent boundaries. 

But bursts the walls and overflov/s to v/ords 

That leap out to a tune in rippling verse. 

The poet thrilled and paced along the banks 

To his own music's beat, and then broke out: 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. (333 

"I am now free — free from the London world, 

"From that vast desert of great multitudes, 

"From idle sycophancy of the court, 

"From that eternal crawl beneath the fog — 

"The melancholy shroud of living men, 

"In which they wind and squirm like wriggling worms 

"Within the grave, by night o'er canopied. 

"How happy is the echo from yon shore 

"Thrown back upon mine ear: I am now free! 

"Free from the fateful feigning of mine art, 

"Free from doing what I only seem to do, 

"Free from being what I only seem to be. 

"The mask in which I hid that which I was, 

"And hid the spirit world which I indwelt, 

"I now can throw aside, to be the sport, 

"To be the riddle of all time to come — 

"The pictured mask that has been named from me, 

"Scribbled over and over with my versicles. 
"The bright disguise of radiant poesy, 
"In which I robed all nature and myself 
"So deftly that men think I am but clothes, 
"And have naught else beside my painted garb, 
"I fling, like cast-off garments, to the poor, 
"To be cut up in patches heaven-hued, 
"To deck some little spot of nakedness. 
"But let the time bemock me as it will, 
"Here as I am, I shall now live my life; 
"The freedman of myself, I am the master. 
"Unclasped by sense to soft indulgences, 
"Unthralled by love to sweet appearances, 
"Unheld by fate to what is not of me, 
"Uncharmed by beauty to fair shows of things, - 
"No more myself the victim of my spell, 
"No longer I the captive of mine art, 

"To Stratford — mark the word — I have returned." 

He ceased; the Sun peeped at him out the cloud. 
And cast his shadow o'er the little v/aves — 
Colossal shadow, there still seen today. 
And never to be washed out of those waters. 



534 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX V. 

The poet saw it, turned his glance away. 

And homeward bent his slow, thought-laden gait, 

Though once or twice he shyly looked around, 

Still seeing that gigantic shadow fall 

Athwart the momentary breaking bubble. 

That rose and rode the current of the stream 

For one short iridescent tick of Time. 

The children stopped their play upon the street. 

And gave salute into the kingly man, 

Since him they knew, and they shall ever know 

By name at least in Anglo-Saxondom. 

The heavy-handed yeoman, big-boned toiler. 

Walked by his side along the village road, 

And chaffed with him in hearty homely notes 

Of the rude speech of rustic Warwickshire. 

The church, with moss of ages overgrown, 

The blazon of her heraldry antique, 

Related to him hoary ancestries. 

Whence he had come, a little point in Time, 

Persisting with its subtle spark through Time. 

The charnel house stood near and also spoke. 

Telling the other tale of human life. 

How soon its flame burns out to very snuff, 

And then falls down to earth, sepulchral dust. 

He felt the sundown coming in his vision. 

And cast a look behind him once again; 

Still he beheld that shadow of himself, 

Yet vaster, resting over land and sea. 

Home he had come, in silence went he in, 

He took his seat upon an ancient chair 

Carved curiously with arabesque festoons. 

With heavy Sphinx and winged Hippogriff. 

There in the stillest chamber of his mind. 

He spoke thus to himself: 

"Returned to Stratford! 
"Whence forth I dashed into the bustling world, 
"A youth sparse-bearded, in the soul's white heat 
"Wooing Maid Fortune's smile, where she had built 
"Her grand fantastic palace by the Thames! 
"A hidden chord I feel in this return, 



SHAKE 8 PE ARE AT STRATFORD. 535 

"Vibrating to the touch of hands unseen, 
"Giving response to life's own melody; 
"And still I cannot quite yet catch the note. 
"Return to what, from what, and why return? 
"The cycle of my time nears to the round, 
"What I forever am lies in between 
"Two points which seem to run together now 
"And kiss themselves in mutual flame, to one; 
"I am the same, yet strangely not the same. 
"What have I done in that swift interval — 
"The flash that joins today and yesterday? 
"The dar'kness from beyond doth hover hither, 
"And, like a bat, flits in the eye of eve; 
"Sere Autumn's hoary night with chilly breath 
"Hath shaken frosty flakes upon my head, 
"And reads me tokens of approaching winter. 
"The toiling spirit did his very best, 
"While living I have lived with all my might, 
"The greedy flame has quite burned up its oil, 
"And here I stand at last, the expiring wick." 

He darkening turned around within his chair, 
As if to shun the thought, and thus went on: 
"What I have done, is it now done with doing? 
"Was it a seed but sown, a crop but cut, 
"The harvest garnered of a single year? 
"At first I stormed the citadel of life, 
"And, mad with passion, rent the sacred veil 
"That long had hid the heart's dark mysteries; 
"So, drunk with laughter, made my soul a clown 
"In motley pied of brightest images; 
"I loved with all the love of Romeo, 
"And scorned with all of crookback Richard's hate; 
"The wild youth broke into the close of age, 
"And stole experience thence without its years. 
"But transformation lurked just in this rage, 
"And life spun out new threads to character. 
"Then slowly reached out of the years a hand 
"That flung me to the Furies of existence; 
"I felt the fatal fingers clutching in me, 



536 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX V. 

"And building of my soul the tragedy. 
"The pen was all the weapon that I had 
"With which to fight against the destinies; 
"I wielded it as if I might go mad, 
"I drove it headlong into furious writ, 
"For mighty was the tempest of m.y spirit. 
"By might I often had to spring from slumber, 
"And run and seize my trusty sword, my pen, 
"To prod the press of demons from my bed, 
"And make them gnashing skip to Devildom." 

The poet rose and grasped with hand still tense. 
But tremulous with coming age, a pen 
That lay before him there upon the table: 
"Why did I write?" he cried, "why write so much? 
"Nay, nay; not to keep off the pinch of hunger, 
"Or fill the painful void of poverty; 
"Not to drain down my wine from golden beakers, 
"Or in high halls of tapestry to eat 
"Today a better meal than yesterday; 
"By all the charms of riches magical 
"I swear I never told my golden tales 
"That I might tell my tales of guineas golden; 
"Not for the breath of praise, the trump of fame, 
"The mighty shout of listening multitudes — 
"All these were mine, yet not enough they were, 
"To quench the fiery frenzy of my toil. 
"I had to write, there was no choice for me, 
"And in my writ I caught and held the hand, 
"The mailed hand of Fate uplifted high 
"To smJte me in the very nick of power, 
"And fell me to the fires, like Lucifer. 
"I wrote, I played, I sang day in, day out, 
"Beneath hot pressure of a demon's force; 
"It was an hourly fight to free myself 
"Not of an outward foe but of an inward, 
"And triumph in my spirit's liberty. 
"Long since I had enough of worldly goods, 
"Had heard the sweetest voices of the world; 
"Possessed of all that never could be mine. 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 537 

"Wealth, honor, earth's bright appearances, 

"I had not come into my own possession. 

"The circumnavigation of the globe 

"Of truth I had not made within myself, 

"But, struck by storms, I clung to narked rocks 

"Or dallied on fair islands mid the ocean. 

"I wrestled with each coming day for life, 

"And wrote the battles of the soldier soul, 

"Till I had Y/rit me into harmony." 

The poet walked, thought-driven, round the room, 
And then again he sat upon his, chair, 
Reflecting still aloud: "My work is done, 
"And I am home returned in sundown's flames, 
"To watch the sinking glory of the skies; 
"The early hearth I left is mine once more, 
"And I, a different man, am still the same, 
"Re-born to youth while chased in silver hairs, 
"Long since it was, the day I well remember, 
"I tore me off in rage my swaddling clothes, 
"And, going, flung them yonder in the Avon; 
"Like a bared athlete sprang I at the world, 
"I dared to measure strokes with wayward chance, 
"And sought experience of wild wilfulness; 
"I wrote all down for others and for me, 
"Till Fate ran out into my very ink 
"And left me free forever. I had to write, 
"And so I wrote my own deliverance. 
"The fingers of the clock turns slowly round, 
"The days tread listless on each other's heels, 
"Tomorrow promises a new tomorrow; 
"Soon shall I leave this mortal residue; 
"To lie in yonder church; a spirit then, 
"I with my Ariel shall fly around 
"The zones, and snuff the air of all the ages." 

II- 

Scarce had he spoken, when a knock was heard; 

The door soon yielded to a willing hand, 

In stepped a well-known man in traveler's garb — 



638 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX V. 

A stout round shape with breath a little short, 
Yet long enough when laden with his words. 
He grasped the poet's hand mid friendly greetings; 
Burly' Ben Jonson was that welcome guest, 
Rare writer of plays, just come from lordly London. 

"What keeps thee here? Who is thy present love? 

"Some country Perdita, some shepherdess, 

"I deem, hath joined thee to her woolly flocks. 

"Has the great city lost it charm for thee?" 
So many questions could not have one answer; 
But Shakespeare knew his man, and gave response 
In a large flagon full of good old sack. 
Which from a cupboard near at hand he took, 
Upturning its big gurgles in a tankard. 
That spoke a language Ben well understood: 

"Another welcome friend," he cried in gle^, 

"Let me salute thee with a loyal kiss," 
And drained the tankard dry, which was not small. 
Ben Jonson's face spoke first, and then his tongue. 

"Know I am come to ask thee who thou art, 
Though for a dozen years and longer too, 
I daily talked and joked and drank with thee. 
Without my once suspecting thy disguise. 
All London quizzes now itself, in wonder 
Asking: Who is this man whom we have seen 
Move round among us for a generation, 
Addressed by name and listened to his speech. 
And now find out at last we have not known him? 
Opinions by the thousand charge the air. 
Opinions of the small and of the great. 
Opinions of the foolish and the wise. 
Of sinner and of saint, of men and women, too — 
What mighty clash is heard between opinions! 
'Tis well they are but ghosts, and fight with swords 
Forged of thin air, else blood would surely flow. 
Some say thou art fat Palstaff, jolly Jack, 

Too fond of sack" Here Ben poured out again 

A cup, and looked intently into it. 

Until he saw the bottom, then went on: 

"Some see in thee a lorn romantic lover, 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 339 

And some affirm thee merely thine own clown, 

Others declare thou art the manager 

Of theaters, making money out of plays. 

Stamping thy coins with golden images 

Of poesy, and I have heard thee called 

A speculator shrewd in real estate. 

I, too, companion of thy social hours. 

Confess I know not what to make of thee; 

And yet I .thought I knew thee all by heart, 

I saw the might of thy transforming hand. 

Beheld the flame of thy Promethean touch 

Leap forth and give thy soul to mortal clay. 

But that last work of thine, with shapes not human, 

Whose lines sweep out beyond the farthest limit 

Of thought full-stretched — I understand it not. 

Art thou then Prospero, the magic man. 

Dallying so daintily with Ariel, 

And sending him o'er sea and land afar, 

To Past and Future in the nick of Now? 

0, Caliban — a beast or man? Thy draught 

Of sack doth make thee human in my sight, 

And so the poet now I understand" — 

Another brimming bowl was on its way, 

When suddenly Ben stopped it half upraised,. 

And set it down again upon the table — 

He never had been known to do the like — 

Then spoke the murderous thought which had the power 

To slay his mighty thirst, and paralyze 

His elbow bent already toward his mouth: 

"Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten it" — 
And still the tankard shunned his speaking lips: 

"Thou wast in London held this character 
And that, the other, and still something else, 
Yet never once another than thyself. 
But now a stranger comes and is much heard, 
A stranger from beyond the unknown seas, 
Who says thou art not William Shakespeare there. 
But art somebody else, who yet somehow 
Has done thy work, and written all thy book. 
And hence, said I to him the other day. 



540 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX V. 

That man can be none other but thyself." 
So satisfied was Ben with this retort 
He pledged a bumper to its author's health. 
The tankard's bottom turned high at the moon, 
And seemed there gazing for a moment fixed 
As if it were a telescope, when a coach 
Was driven up before the door and stopped; 
The steeds were proud, of noble breed, well-mated; 
A coat of arms was blazoned on the trappings, 
A servant in full livery leaped down 
To lead a man who moved Vv^ith weighty mien 
Into the house; both poets knew at once 
When Francis Bacon, Baron Verulam, came in. 
Who with much courtesy bespoke the master: 
/Passing upon my circuit in these parts, 
I come to call and have a word with you; 
The world just now is buzzing with your name 
So loud, that if this noise keep going on, 
I scarcely shall be heard but in faint echoes 
Commingled with the thunders of your fame. 
I see your plays, and I have read them, too; 
If they were mine, I would correct their style, 
Mistakes in dates and facts of history, 
And make the matter, too, conform to reason. 
And yet I cannot help but often think 
'Tis strange how much of me I find in you! 
Of my philosophy you have some thoughts, 
But surely you are no philosopher; 
I deem you must have been a lawyer, too. 
But, oh! such errors as you make in law. 
For instance, in that trial-scene in Venice! 
In you is something else that is like me: 
Nature's own naturalist I might you call. 
For you do often make a slip like her. 
And lawless bring to light monstrosities. 
A scholar, too, you might perchance be deemed, 
But for the v/ant of all right scholarship. 
Tell me, in fine, how do you spell your name? 
There is dispute about it growing loud; 
The letters of it run great danger now 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. g41 

Of some displacement in their order true; 
Posterity, I fear, may be in doubt 
And spend much time in the attempt 
To set aright the label of your fame. 
For if the man be incorrectly named. 
He surely cannot be the self-same man." 
'I know now what's the matter with myself;" 
Cried Ben, "I have been given the wrong name." 
A side door moved ajar, a face peeped through; 
The poet spoke: "0, daughter Judith, come; 
Here is the man V\^hom thou rememberest, 
When once I took thee with me to the Mermaid, 
A little girl thou wert, scarce five years old." 
She stepped into the room, and to him said 
In soft low tones: "The time I dimly can recall; 
What trouble was I then to thee, my father!" 
'Nay, nay," he cried, "the little angel thou 
Of innocence that led me through the maze 
Which then I had to thread half in the dark." 
The daughter blushed and glided out the room, 
Ben Jonson saw her fleeting from his look 
And cried out to himself: 'Admired Miranda!" 
The high-born guest had risen from his seat 
To go, and at the door he stood and said: 
The time is urging me, I must be off. 
The circle of the days gives me to tread, 
As if I were inside a rolling wheel, 
The never-ending routine of my life. 
But mark that last request of mine again! 
By it I seek to know the letters right, 
Which, being put together, make your name; 
The answer from you I await in London." 
They parted and the coach drove out of sight; 
The poet Shakespeare looking after it 
Could not keep back a little lurking laugh: 
'Still at thy spelling lesson, learned man! 
And thou, like callow youth, still go to school! 
Long wilt thou wait, methinks, my noble Lord, 
Before thou shalt know how to spell my name." 
41 



642 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX Y. 

A little dame walked in — Anne Hathaway, 
The wife of William Shakespeare's youth and age, 
Still full of life and playful irony. 
She guessed the purport of the talk today, 
Its massive tones had stormed the sewing-room, 
And mingled with the simmer of the kitchen. 
She, after greeting Ben the visitor, 
Had deemed it was her turn to speak her mind: 
"I have my question, too, about these plays, 
Which once I saw when I to London went 
With thee, my Will, and heard the great applause 
That roared from every corner of the house, 
I feared the shaky thing might tumble down. 
Now tell me, dear, which is thy favorite 
Among those ladies fair who seem to walk 
Out of thy lines to live a little hour 
In the little world which thou hast called the stage. 
To happy Arden Forest once I roamed. 
And saw a damsel sparkle mid the trees 
As if she were the brightest jewel, though 
Her setting was but the green leaves and twigs. 
And then I stood within a city grand, 
That to my mind rose out the grey old sea; 
I went into a palace where I heard 
That lively woman in the periwig 
Pleading for mercy from the hook-nosed Jew. 
The saintly wronged wife 1 too beheld, 
Who mastered by her patience all her trials, 
Although it was her husband she endured. 
I am not one of these, I know it well, 
I have but little wit and not much beauty. 
Of patience I don't care to have too much; 
Make me but jealous of thy dames of air. 
And I shall show to thee no mercy. Will. 
Where didst thou find the patterns of those women? 
In Stratford hereabouts there are none such. 
Thou art a tell-tale on thyself in them, 
I know they met thee in thy London rambles; 
While far away from me these many years 
Thou must have roamed the greenest fields of freedom, 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. ^43 

And kept love young by daily exercise. 

I think thou hast no right to play with' them, 

Although they he but phantoms of thy brain; 

Not one of them might ever be thy wife. 

Now tell me, Will— for I would die to know — 

Which one of all thy dames thou lovest best? 

I don't believe it was Hermione, 

She is too sober, too dark-grained in soul, 

I think she would endure too much from thee, 

Thou wilt a woman who resents thy teasing. 

Who gives thee back thine own with interest. 

Who can get angry and be jealous too — 

A skinful of true . femininities. 

And still one question more — it is the last — 

Hear me now, Will, for I must know today: 

Of all thy high fantastic maids of mind 

Who don men's clothes and knock about the world. 

Which wouldst thou marry, if thou hadst the chance, 

And I somehov/ were gotten out of the way? 

Would it be Portia, heiress of Belmont, 

Who cast aside with jeers her English suitor? 

If so, then thou art no true Englishman. 

It may be that thy mind thinks Imogen; 

Oh, dear, that is another patient wife; 

But with her patience this wife has no patience. 

Thou laughest, but it is no right response 

To my demand — I shall not take a laugh. 

Thou tease — but thou wilt tell it all at last; 

Now, Will, I may as well confess myself 

Most jealous of that madcap Rosalind." 

Anne Hathaway had not yet ceased to speak 

When a new guest stood there before them all, 

Whom Shakespeare thus addressed with cheery look: 

"Why, Dick, my lad, what make you here from town? 

Why slide so stealthily into my castle?" 

Ben Jonson, too, glanced at the sudden man. 

Then poured for joy another glass of sack. 

And cried :"A health to Burbage, prince of actors!" 

A slip between the cup and Ben Jonson's lip 

There never yet had been, there was not now. 



644 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX Y. 

Then Burbage rose in mighty detonation, 
And roared as if ten thousand people stood 
Before him listening in a theater: 
"O, William Shakespeare, child of destiny! 
All London is now delving in your lines; 
Men put deep meaning into every word, 
And from each ragged phrase of clown or witch 
Are subtly drawn profound philosophies. 
But that is not the truth, your works are plays, 
And you a player too; they must be seen 
And heard in human voice upon the stage, 
Else they cannot be understood at all. 
I know how they were written, for I saw you 
Take notes behind the scene, and interline 
New words and thoughts and sounding sentences, 
When I was speaking to the people there. 
Me you would watch and others acting with me. 
Would listen to the loud huzzas of men, 
To find what touched their tears, or to a laugh 
Tickled their brains, whenever we would speak. 
Thence could you see what's written on the heart. 
And make true copy of it in your lines. 
Unto our talents several your gift 
It was to fit your play of characters; 
So you but rendered back what we had given. 
In fine, to put the seal on what I say; 
Your deep philosophy is simply this: 
To fill the theatre to overflow, 
And thus to fill your purse." 

"Stop there, my Dick," 
Ben Jonson shouted from his blazing face: 
"You are now touching on my theme, dear boy; 
I wrote to fill my purse, but it is empty; 
I also wrote to fill the theater. 
And yet the people never came to fill it; 
Your acting, too, I oft have looked upon, 
But still I am myself in spite of you. 
There must be something else, I know not what — 
Oft have I felt the demurge at work — 
A something lurking in this poesy, 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. ^45 

Whereby it reads far deeper than it acts. 

This we shall talk of on our way to London, 

I have some thoughts about it to impart. 

Which may help fleet the journey's lagging minutes, 

And give a glimpse into our poet's world. 

Let us set out." 

With cordial farewells 
The friendly company soon went asunder; 
The poet was now with himself again, 
And with his thoughts, which whispered to each other: 
"Ah, me! a great vexation of the minnows, 
While the high tide is swaying them along! 
I am a man; what man I am "who cares? 
I little care myself about myself; 
This veil of flesh I soon shall put aside. 
The fatal part of me gives drowsy warning, 
Hands beckon from afar, and I would sleep." 

III. 

His heavy head fell back upon the cushion. 

His eyes swam in a sea of images 

Which flit around the borderland of slumber; 

The curtains dropped and shut the soul inside — 

A. world majestic peopled with itself — 

And William Shakespeare v/as a splendid dream. 

His spirit fled at once into its home. 

And saw a mighty multitude of ghosts. 

Not pale and fleeting they, not empty shades 

From Hades dim, but filled with life's best blood — 

Olympian ichor deathless in them ran. 

Their voice had not grown faint by lapse of years. 

Their words not blunted in the centuries. 

For them old Time shall whet his scythe in vain. 

The master knew them well, they were his own, 

His family begotten in a trance 

Out of his teeming brain, and richly dressed 

At birth in regal words of English speech, 

Ta'en from the wardrobe of the King of tongues. 

They flew in flocks from all the furthest spheres. 



g46 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX Y. 

And sought to touch again the magic lips 
Which erst had kissed them to immortal life. 
A sweet salute fell out his sleeping voice: 
What, Hamlet, here again? I held thee gone, 
I never thought thou wouldst come back to me; 
Still Lethe's loiterer, I sent thee once 
A ghost to stray with thine ov/n father's ghost." 
The thoughtful Dane delayed the spritely word. 
And ere his tardy breath with speech was laden, 
There slipped into the dreamy interval 
A royal pair, by three weird women led, 
With gilded trappings and grand retinue. 
The little lady stepped out to the front, 
And cast a queenly vengeful glance around; 
The poet raised his finger in reply: 

'T know I told to men thy dreadful secret. 
And held up to all time thy naked heart. 
But thou the executioner thyself — 
Thou didst appoint, merely the scribe I was." 
Whereat those guilty spirits shrank to air, 
And turned a scarlet fleck in vanishing; 
While in their stead arose a massive form 
With olive face o'er writ in lines of torture. 
And body swathed in crackling flames for cerements. 
The poet seemed to speak in self-defence: 

"Reproach me not, Othello, Thou didst build 
With thine own circling deed this pyre of Hell, 
Which still is biting thee with fiery fangs. 
And opportunity applied the torch. 
A brand I bore out of thy speaking flames. 
And with it wrote thy pains in words that burn 
Forever; I have done to thee no wrong." 
More had he said, but flocks of characters, 
Like spirits of the populated air. 
Rushed madly to the presence magical; 
Heroic shapes of men and fairest women, 
Kings with their jeweled crowns and Kings discrowned. 
High queens in diadems weeping hot tears. 
The low degree and high, alone, in groups — 
All with the whispering flight of spirit wings, 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 547 

Came rustling somewhence out the distant skies. 
But hark! A thunderous rumbling in the welkin! 
How manifold the roar! It is the people, 
The mighty demos, rushing through the air 
With body many-headed as the stars, 
The spectral terror of the ideal world, 
Evoked to sport a moment with the master. 
It comes with pun and laughter at itself, 
It is the clown, and is the audience; 
Fantastic humors bubble out its mouth 
Reeking with garlic, and on its brow 
Sits sooty toil in honest homespun clad. 
But it doth bear within its shaggy breast 
The heart of Time, to whose trip-hammer beats 
Come throbbing all the changes of the ages — 
New states, societies and institutions. 
The charters of the higher liberty. 
The seer in vision spake now to himself: 
'O listen to the people's steadfast mind. 
Round which play fickle arabesques of humor, 
And rainbow jets of evanescent feeling. 
Its first Avord may be wrong, its last is right 
Always — is just the right of every right. 
The people's heart is the deep well from which 
The poet draws prophetic draughts of truth 
By hidden chains of human sympathy. 
And then he speaks unbidden oracles 
Which circling years interpret into deeds, 
Forefeeling in himself the unborn world." 
Behind the ponderous roar of popular noise 
Now dying on some distant shore of dreamland, 
A fainter folk comes flitting airily. 
Strange forms not human, yet the human sharing, 
And hard to look upon half hid in twilight. 
Witches, fairies, ghosts, the spectral rout that roam 
The hazy confines of fantastic land. 
And cast their shadows on tne solid v;orld 
Afar, to people dreams of living men. 
They whisked and whirred, they bowed and moped 
and mowed, 



Q4S ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX V. 

Saluting lowly with a thin transparent nod 
The mighty master of their misty realm. 
But see! around, above, and everywhere 
Enclosing all that fleeting multitude of shapes. 
The ghostly forms of architecture rose. 
The spirit structure of this spirit land. 
With lofty pillars and entablature, 
Carved in every curve of rich romance. 
Supporting a vast dome, great as the world. 
Supporting e'en the fringed clouds that hid it. 
And bright festoons that overlaid it all. 
A temple fair it was, to music built. 
Whose stones re-echoed the grand harmonies 
Which, though forever fixed in massive lines 
Still ros-e and fell in high orchestral strains. 
Within its corridors the spirits dwelt 
And played their lives in time beyond all time. 
While down its aisles the heroes swept in song 
Unto the altar of the sacrificial deed. 
That structure was the poet's chiefest wonder- 
Mankind's own home uprising to the skies 
And holdinf; all the generations past 
And still to be along the teeming flight of years; 
It was a house which had a pattern, too, 
Namely, the order of the universe, 
Beyond which there is naught but nothingness. 
The poet gazed aloft to that high dome 
Upbuilt to finest breath etherial; 
A dainty little sprite came flitting down 
Out of the region of the rifted cloud 
And stood anon unveiled within that presence; 
The sprite commanded all the ghostly crowd. 
He was the temple's cunning architect; 
Though but a puff of air, he turned the shapes 
Whither he listed with his golden wand; 
Blown in his breath, they flew around the globe 
And bore his message to each ready mind — 
The messenger abreast the lightning thought. 
The structure vast he could uplift at will, 
And all the throngs that dwell within its halls, 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. ^49 

Could set it dov/n elsewhere just as it was, 
Transform it fair, e'en build it up anew 
With changes beautiful of what was old. 
The master knew at once the spirit of his spirit, 
And spoke in tones of voice a sweet caress: 
"What, ho, my Ariel, art thou here too? 
Today from far beyond the charmed Bermoothes 
For love of me thou must have come in haste; 
Another task I have for thee, my sprite. 
It done, thee I again shall liberate." 
The spirit answered v^^ith a moody brow: 
'Once I fulfilled in play thy heavy bests, 
I straddled lightning at thy strong command, 
I rode upon the tempest's wings in glee, 
And sped at guilty men the thunder stone; 
Then thou didst set me free when I had served. 
Think what I did — I built this temple here. 
Its music drew I from celestial spheres, 
I took its radiance from the rainbow's arch. 
Its gold I stole out of the setting sun, 
I lined its galleries with lordly shapes. 
Upon its pedestals I put the heroes high, 
And called out of the void the ladies fair. 
Freely thou didst discharge me from my service, 
Since then I play around the dome of heaven, 
Or loiter in the house which once I built. 
Holding sweet conversation with my ghosts. 
I would no more." The master sent a glance 
That gleamed like a steel-blade drawn from its 

scabbard: 
'Enough; a new work is to be begun. 
By thee, for time is thine. Thou knowest well 
The happy dream of far Hesperides, 
The dream antique of lands beyond the sea. 
Discerned by elder bards and set to song; 
A garden filled with fruits of all the seasons. 
Great rivers flowing through its fields of grain, 
All climates of the world inside its close, 
A harvest running round the entire year 
May there be found, and from the trees hang down 



g50 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS—APPENDIX V. 

Apples of gold, and golden every fruit, 

While in its heart a city nestles fair. 

Go to that garden of Hesperides, 

The dragon that once guarded it is tamed 

And hitched unto the wagon of the world, 

He draws it now through all the blooming plains. 

Uprise, thy flight must reach beyond the sea, 

I bid thee lift at once this stately dome, 

This temple of my spirit's architecture; 

Upon thy wand across the waters vast 

Bear it away with all who dwell in it, 

And set it up again within that city, 

The city fair of far Hesperides." 

So spake the poet with the mien of power. 

Swift Ariel obeisance made at once, 

Then whirled about and waved his wand above. 

The edifice began to nod, it shook. 

It rose to fly as if it too had wings. 

And all the living imagery of shapes 

Who dwelt within its halls, were borne aloft; 

Over the sea it swept without a pause. 

Through Space, which was too slow to stop its flight; 

It flew down Time in but a tick of time 

To the new shore of a new continent; 

Nor did it settle on the sea-lined border. 

Despite great clamor made to hold it there, 

But kept its front still to the Occident. 

Onward it sped until a lake was seen, 

That mirrored laughingly the poet's realm 

Above it sv/eeping westward merrily; 

And then another lake rose into sight. 

Whose deep blue eyes looked up into the dome, 

And shot soft sparkles of a tender love 

For that fair image fleeting through its bosom 

In true response to what it saw above, 

And still another lake a cluster made, 

Showing a heart burst to the surface there, 

The throbbing heart of that great continent. 

A silvery thread ran from it to the sea 

And tied it to the world, which felt its beat, 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. Q^l 

But mark upon the land a greater wonder! 
Over the fields afar there ran a steed 
Of unknown strain; his breath was fire and smoke, 
And from his nostrils huge upturned to heaven 
He smeared the golden sunbeams with his soot, 
And streaked with Stygian black the face of Nature; 
His belch could drown the music of the winds, 
His bray was louder than a thousand asses; 
The dragon that of far Hesperides, 
"Who changes into gold the very soil, 
A monster broke to harness in a car. 
Just see the big long line he pulls behind him! 
Strange animal! he races all the day 
And all the night and never once gets tired. 
And needs no sleep. But look! Where is he now? 
With sudden change he leaps into the water. 
And swiftly swims the wave from coast to coast; 
Aquatic then the monster must be, too. 
Amphibious monster of Hesperides. 
Iron chimeras puffing through the prairie. 
Mighty behemoths snorting o'er the waters. 
In herds all seem to gather to one spot 
Along the lakeside of that continent, 
Whence came a distant din, as yet unknown, 
Until beneath a canopy of smoke 
A city rose out of its reeehy grave. 
Painfully thither Ariel flapped his wings — 
As yet he had not been acclimated — 
He beat against the heavy folds of air, 
Which choked him to a hiccough in his song, 
And made him sneeze sweet lines of poesy. 
The houses rose aspiring to the skies, 
Where only steeples ventured timidly 
In olden days men had their eerie homes, 
And plied their task, and toil was nearer heaven. 
The very earth seemed rising into air. 
And floating upward to the gauzy clouds; 
Dull brick and mortar took on wings and soared. 
"Here is our journey's end," cried Ariel, 
And soon the poet walked the sounding streets 



652 



A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX V. 



Within the city of Hesperides, 
A wonder greater than all fairyland. 
He came into a lofty edifice 
That skyward rolled a massive storm in stone. 
With dark disastrous lines seamed through its face; 
It was the largest house in ail the town, 
And stood the stressful center of the roar 
That rose out of that human hurricane 
Whizzing and whirling through the thoroughfares. 
It creaked and was about to fall to pieces 
In its own frenzy; every stone of it 
Was restless, trying somehow to turn in bed. 
For gravitation seemed no longer law, 
And heavy marble rose up in revolt. 
This was the city's seat of government. 
Authority here sat in her rocking-chair. 
And she kept rocking up and down in tune 
To music of that stormy architecture. 
Swift currents of mortality whirled in 
And out and round about it everywhere; 
The gorged street was like to burst its sides. 
And every breathing thing upon the street 
Could scarce be held inside its little skin. 
The poet perched himself upon an islet 
Within this sv/irling sea of human microbes. 
He dared tc turn about and look behind 
As if to scan a moment what had been; 
Thus breasted he tne stream with a reflection: 
"A fever-dream of stone unsatisfied 
The structure there. The outer life of man. 
As here I read it, has reached its highest stress 

Upon this planet. I would now see the inner " 

Just then a wave swashed o'er his petty isle, 

And swept him onward helpless down the street. 

He knew noi whither. But at last he found 

His flying feet again, and stood them firmer 

Upon a curbstone twixt two eddying streams; 

Before him rose another lofty house, 

Whose lines shot straight up toward the shining sun. 

And ran out to a steeple Heaven-tipped, 



SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 553 

The architect had made of it a church, 

And slyly built in stone a dash of humor. 

The spire upreared into the bend of blue, 

A wreath of piercing lights hung round it high 

By night, like aureole of stars let down 

Out of the lamp-lit firmament above. 

'What's this?" the poet cried in mystery; 

'This structure lying in the heart of tov/n, 

Like our St. Paul's? 'Tis the cathedral; 

The sound of voices I can hear inside 

The people must be at their prayers now, 

I shall go in and say my orisons." 

So in he went, but soon ran out again 

Breathless and pale, and yet not quite struck dumb: 

'Why in their hymn such fearful dissonance? 

Why in their liturgy such wrangling shouts? 

Grimaces, too, they made at me like fiends 

And struggled in contortions of the damned. 

Strange folk! Strange worship to their noisy Gods!" 

He hastened round a corner in his flight. 

And to the lakeside came; he freed his glance 

A moment, looking out upon the waters' 

Calm boundlessness, and felt the healing might 

Of Nature's infinite suggestion; when he turned, 

He stood before a building turreted, 

Whose many-windowed front invited light, 

But brusqueness showed in roughened corrugations; 

It had a modest face, but veiled in brown 

Transparently, through which the eye could see 

Its wrinkles were not those of shriveled age, 

But dimpled arabesques Of youthful smiles. 

It hailed the stranger, bade him enter in; 

He saw in lofty halls the shapes antique. 

The forms of the old Gods grandly serene. 

The Heroes high and hoary Emperors 

A Heaven and an Earth long gone, yet fixed 

In lines eternal of the beautiful. 

How strangely near to him that place did seem! 

Instinctively he went unto a stair 

That led the guest down to a presence chamber; 



554 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX Y. 

Descending thither, he seemed but going home, 
For every nook Vv^ithin that room somehow 
Was known to him — he had been there before. 
The people, whom he found already waiting, 
Appeared his friends and old acquaintances, 
Those who had caught into their own his spirit 
Out of his words, and seen it take on form — 
His new appearance in their own new world. 
Still he advanced, a shape saluted him 
That seemed to be the master of the house — 
Seated aloft upon a pedestal. 
In mould antique of sculptured deities, 
Yet with a modern cut of mustachio. 
And dress of courtier of Elizabeth. 
He knew himself at once, and straightway awoke, 
He could not sleep and see himself asleep; 
Anne Hathaway stood at his side, and spoke: 
"A restful nap, my dear ! " He made reply : 
"And you are here, and this is Stratford still! 
I dreamed I crossed the sea with Ariel 
Unto the city of Hesperides; 
It was a glimpse of some far-off fulfillment. 
I wonder if this trance will turn to words! 
My dreams have always been the truest part 
Of me when written down — Give me my pen." 



APPENDIX VI 

PEDAGOGICAL ADDRESS. 

(From report in The Western of June, 1872. First reg- 
ular meeting of the St. Louis Society of Pedagogy was 
called to order at 4:10 P. M. The minutes of the previous 
preliminary meetings were read and approved. Some 
other business having been transacted, the following 
paper was read by Mr. D. J. Snider of the High School.) 

Objects of the Society. 

The first question one naturally asks about an organ- 
ization is, what is its-end? what functions does it purpose 
fulfilling? in other words, has it any reason for existence? 
If no such reason can be found, then it ought to perish at 
once — in fact, it must soon perish. It is the first princi- 
ple of intelligence, that what is irrational cannot endure. 
We may bolster unreason with all the resources of 
genius; we may robe folly in the fairest garments of 
poetry; still, their character is not changed — ^^they must 
contradict themselves, and thus perish by their own 
hand. If, therefore, an organization has no rational 
end, it must share the fate of all other absurdities. But 
if, on the contrary, it has such an end and truly sub- 
serves a useful and necessary purpose in any form of 
social existence, then such an organization ought to live 
— must live. Moreover, such an organization ought to 
have a clear notion of its rational 'basis, that it may not 
undertake too much, or too little; that it may not trans- 
gress its true limits on the one hand, or fail to assert its 
.iust claims on the other. Both are excesses which can 
only produce sickness and ultimately death. 

For these reasons it was thought best to have as a 
theme of discussion to-day, the objects and aims of our 
society. At the very threshold there must be no stum- 
bling; we intend to see and know clearly our end, and 

(655) 



056 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX VI. 

to pursue it with unflinching resolution and steadfast- 
ness of purpose. In the beginning of such an under- 
taking, therefore, nothing would seem more natural and 
appropriate than to ask ourselves, What are we here for? 
What do we purpose to accomplish? It is my design to 
try to answer these questions. 

Our object then may be stated in a general way, to be 
the elaboration of the science of Pedagogy. This science 
can be divided into two very distinct parts: that of 
Instruction, and that of Organization. The teacher must 
always be chiefly occupied with instruction; in fact, this 
is the great end of his calling. It is the side of pedagog- 
ical science which has hitherto received the most atten- 
tion. The greatest minds of all ages have not considered 
it beneath their dignity to give much time and thought 
to this subject. In Europe, especially in Germany, the 
didactic side, namely, instruction, has been fully elabo- 
rated into a science. The fruits of all this endeavor it 
is our purpose in part to gather and work up anew, with 
changes adapted to the character of the institutions in 
our country. Also the results of our own experience must 
be carefully elaborated. What to teach and how to teach, 
must always be the leading question in the mind of an 
instructor. The various methods must be fully discussed 
and compared, and the best chosen. The principal ele- 
ments of a school, deportment, discipline, attendance, 
recitation, must have their true limits drawn, and their 
true place assigned. In, fine, what people mean by the 
word education, expresses the extent and boundary of 
this sphere of pedagogical science. Upon this basis all 
teachers can unite with our science, whether they come 
from public or private schools, and also all citizens who 
are interested in the cause of education. Upon this part 
of the science I shall no longer dwell; we all recognize 
the magnitude of the field and the necessity of its 
cultivation. 

I now come to the second part above mentioned: organ- 
ization. By this is not meant the organization of a single 
school, but of a system of schools. The relation of the 
teacher is no longer to the pupils below him, but to the 



PEDAGOGICAL ADDRESS, 557 

organization above him. This part of pedagogy may be 
said to be wholly in its infancy as a science. Hence, I 
regard it as our special function to elaborate this sphere. 
In other words, it is more particularly the object of our 
society, to draw the rational limitations in every depart- 
ment pertaining to the public schools, and to find for 
these limitations an adequate expression. Such is at 
least my view of its duties, and hence I -shall devote the 
greater part of my paper to the consideration of this 
subject. Nor must we be content with a mere dogmatic 
statement of our distinctions; we must go deeper down 
and find their logical basis. For all true limitations and 
distinctions rest upon the inherent logical nature of the 
thing; this is the germ from which all special forms 
develop, and hence these primitive principles must force 
themselves into our investigation. For instance, how 
can we justify the public school system without compre- 
hending the State from which it is derived? or show the 
morality of the public" school system without clearly 
understanding what morality means? It is only in this 
way we can obtain a connected view of the whole subject, 
and reach a rational basis for our limitations. 

It may be fairly stated to be the whole secret of prac- 
tical life to clearly recognize and firmly adhere to the 
true limitations of our calling. Every individual finds 
himself a member of an organization of some kind ; there 
is somebody above him and somebody below him; there 
is a line where his responsibility ends and where it 
begins, and he cannot transgress the one nor refuse to 
accept the other with impunity. Take no responsibility 
which is not your own, shirk none which belongs to you, 
is a plain practical maxim. But plain as it is, it involves 
a knowledge of the above-mentioned limitations, which, 
strange to say, are very frequently unknown, and as I 
have found to my astonishment, very frequently un- 
thought of even by intelligent men. Persons engaged in 
an occupation have never given a moment's reflection to 
the limits and extent of that occupation. The effect of 
this ignorance is manifest. For an organization works 

42 



^58 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX Yt. 

with many instrumentalities, these must all have their 
particular sphere and keep in it, and not strike into 
others. Hence it is of the utmost importance in every 
organization that these limitations he clearly understood, 
and rigidly observed, and it is the great object of our 
society to draw them out, to state them, and bring them 
to a full consciousness in the minds of teachers and 
everybody else, who has any connection with, or interest 
in the public schools. 

The necessity of having some means of developing 
these distinctions and defining the separate functions of 
the public school system, has long been felt. Within 
the present scholastic year I have heard of no less than 
three plans, all coming from independent sources to 
reach this very end, and no doubt, there have been more. 
Excellent as is the organization of the public schools 
in many respects, it is universally felt that there is some- 
thing wanting in this direction. The distinction and lim- 
itations in each department are not always well drawn 
and clearly seen, there is overdoing and underdoing very 
frequently on the parts of officials — I mean by officials, 
any connected with and forming an integral part of the 
organization of public schools, whether board, teachers, 
or officers proper. The result of these encroachments 
can only be opposition, friction, even insubordination. 
For we may rest assured that an organization which is 
capricious in acts, and forgetful or false to its end, will 
never be able to subordinate its parts. That which gives 
the lie to itself cannot expect that others will assert its 
truthfulness and yield obedience to its whimsical and 
contradictory mandates. The necessity of having these 
limitations clearly drawn and universally known is 
apparent. But next comes a difficulty. Who is going 
to draw these distinctions? What is the means to 
elaborate them? No doubt there are certain instrumen- 
talities already in existence which attempt to reach this 
end. There is the Teachers' Association. But there is 
probably not one teacher present who will say that that 
organization subserves this purpose or any useful pur- 
pose. The reason, to my mind, has long been evident. 



PEDAGOGICAL ADDRESS. ^59 

It does not and cannot express the free voluntary activ- 
ity of the teacher. It is the creature of the Board, and 
there is no use about the creatures drawing limitations 
for the creator. But the Board is only a part of the 
organization of the public schools, not by any means 
the whole system; and hence it too must have its lim- 
itations, and remain in these limitations. Hence, a 
society which proposes to elaborate all limitations per- 
taining to the public schools cannot be creature of any 
part of that system, neither of the Board nor of the 
superintendent nor again of the teacher. For a part 
trying to assume the functions of the whole, means 
sickness in the animal frame, and disorganization in 
any system. This objection, therefore, lies against any 
instrumentality at present in existence, it is either a part, 
or a creature of a part, and hence must have a tendency 
to be one-sided. What we want is a free, voluntary 
organization in which shall be represented all the ele- 
ments of the public schools. I say free, because if such 
a society is made, and meets per order, then that which 
gives the command is above it, and it is a creature. 

Then the first condition of such an association is that 
it must be voluntary. The only rational end that it has 
is the furtherance of Pedagogical Science. But the 
notion that science can be forced, can be drawn out of 
men, as it were, with a pair of pincers is absurd. They 
may be made to mumble over set formulas, or to kill 
time by random talk, or listen to anything, however 
foreign to the design of the society or worthless in 
matter, but to elaborate a science, to write a great poem, 
or to perform any high intellectual work — never. For 
the essence of thought is free activity, and as thought 
is the basis of all true science, the latter cannot well be 
constrained. Force a man to discover printing, to write 
the Iliad, to paint the Transfiguration, to construct the 
tubular bridge! Immortality is then in the reach of 
every fool, if the pressure is strong enough. Hence, at 
the very outset, we refuse to undertake to do that which 
is in its nature impossible, which inherently involves a 
logical contradiction. We do not intend to try the 



ggO A WRITER OF B00K8~-APPENDIX Yt. 

experiment of freezing fire, and of lighting a candle 
with an icicle, and still less of forcing a free act, and 
of making a science on compulsion. Our organization 
is therefore voluntary, those who do not feel a living 
interest in this science and inner cravings after clear- 
ness do not belong here. Nor shall we be clogged by 
any superfluous material, but stripped clean as an athlete 
we leap into the arena, determined to fulfil the end of the 
existence of the organization. 

Now it seems to me that just such a society as this 
is wanting to complete the system of Public Schools. 
This may appear a preposterous claim, nevertheless I 
make it in the full belief in its validity. An associa- 
tion for the purpose of collecting and organizing peda- 
gogical opinion and knowledge is certainly a desideratum 
among the teachers of this city. For it is chiefly the 
teachers, upon whom the burden of elaborating educa- 
tional science must fall. Others can do much in the 
way of assistance and encouragement, but it stands to 
reason, that to the members of any particular profession 
must be left the development of the science of that pro- 
fession; to lawyers, the science of law, to doctors, the 
science of medicine, to teachers, the science of pedagogy. 
Therefore one of the chief objects of our association 
is the organization of pedagogical opinion. Hitherto 
there has never been adequate means for ascertaining 
and expressing that opinion in its completeness. The 
consequence is, that teachers, the experts whose whole 
energy and thoughts are concentrated upon the public 
schools, and who in education and intelligence are cer- 
tainly not inferior to those engaged in other professions, 
have had very little to do in shaping the policy of 
schools. It would not be difficult to point out some 
things which have 'been done in defiance of the judg- 
ment of almost the entire corps of teachers. The chief 
reason is, in my judgment, their opinion was not organ- 
ized, but scattered among so many individuals, and 
consequently, of no influence. 

Here, too, we can lay the basis of what may be called 
a system of Pedagogical Ethics; the bringing together 



PEDAGOGICAL ADDRE88. QQl 

and stating of certain general principles which are abso- 
lutely essential to the success and dignity of the pro- 
fession. Unless these principles are insisted upon by all 
the teachers in common, in other words, unless they are 
the organized expression of the same, they are of no 
effect. One man can do little or nothing, but an organ- 
ized body can do much. At any rate we can write and 
give expression to our conviction, though it may not 
be heard. For example, if the principal of a school is 
to be held responsible for the success of the school 
under his charge, he must have suitable instruments 
for the performance of his work. There must be no 
forcing upon him of incompetent teachers, directly or 
indirectly, no hampering by external regulations, no 
interference in matters which jeopardize the discipline 
of the school. The teacher must have instrumentalities 
adequate to the responsibility of his charge, and further- 
more, all teachers should insist that he should have 
them; this should be an established principle of Peda- 
gogical Ethics. In the course of time, by the more 
perfect development of opinion, a full code will be 
elaborated. That the present condition of this subject 
is wholly chaotic, I need not say. Other professions have 
gone in advance of us; we hear of Medical Ethics, and 
Legal Ethics, and we hope soon to hear of Pedagogical 
Ethics, whose object is to promote and maintain the 
honor, independence, and dignity of the profession. 

But the teachers also must be held to a rigid account. 
How are all the parties concerned to find out whether 
a principal, for instance, does his work, fulfils his duties? 
This brings us to that most difficult part of all organ- 
izations, whether political, social or commercial, viz.: 
accountability. Now it is one of the purposes of this 
society to give this subject a most complete and 'search- 
ing investigation, for there is no use of trying to keep 
men in their true limits, if they cannot be held to 
account. Many have been the attempts of getting at 
the real value of a teacher's work; the Board, the people, 
the body of teachers want to know it; but at present, 
there is scarcely any test but rumor and opinion. What 



662 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX VL 

is wanted is an objective, universal test, not dependent 
upon the notions of anybody. For instance, what is 
to-day the chief standard of the success of a principal 
or teacher, and hence the basis of promotion? It is 
the opinion of the superintendent, mainly, at least. Now 
this opinion is worth, no doubt, more than any other 
individual opinion, still it is merely an individual opin- 
ion, and as such, can never satisfy. For any officer who 
makes appointments purely from his own notions of 
things without o'bjective tests, can never escape the 
charge of favoritism from the disappointed, even though 
the appointments were the best that could be made, 
which is not very likely to be the case. The cry of the 
time is: No more unlimited appointing power, no more 
absolute ukases, but civil-service reform, based upon true 
objective tests. 

But this mention of appointments was only incidental. 
I did not intend to speak of them at all, though they 
will form a legitimate subject for our consideration. 
I was speaking of the means by which the efficiency 
of teachers and schools can be ascertained. It is our 
design to elaborate all these threads of accountability, 
these tests which may be justly called the reins, which 
control the entire organization of public schools. I did 
not intend in this essay to propose any solution, but 
rather to exhibit the problems to 'be solved. But on 
this subject I must beg leave to transgress a little. A 
very good test now in use, of the eflaciency of a school, 
is examination, and this test can be rendered probably 
more effective than it is. But alone it is not sufficient. 
Another has been suggested, and it seems to me of the 
highest value: That a scholarship record by schools, of 
the different pupils who come to the High School, 
should be kept by the Principal of the High, an1& branch 
high schools, and should be accessible to all who wish 
to see it, in the form of a report. I am not the author 
of this suggestion, but it appears to me as one of the 
most striking and comprehensive tests that could be , 
given of the effectiveness of a school. At least it would 
furnish one of those grounds of judgment which it is 



PEDAGOGICAL ADDRESS. QQ^ 

our object to fully elaborate and state. No doubt, other 
tests can be found which would aid and perhaps correct 
this one, if it should be shown to be defective. 

But this is one way in which the efficiency of schools 
cannot be promoted: by petty, special regulations which 
infringe upon the free choice of methods by the teacher. 
His individuality must have room for a free development. 
If by merely enacting that the schools should be good, 
they could be made good, that would be the end of the 
matter. But as long as there is such a thing as individual 
free will, such a result is manifestly impossible. Pile 
regulation on regulation, and you cannot make a good 
teacher out of a bad one, but you may seriously hamper 
the good and conscientious teacher. There is only one 
way in which the highest responsibility of the teacher 
can be secured; that v/ay is: by leaving him as untram- 
meled as is consistent with organization. The greater 
the restraint, and the more limited the freedom, the 
less must be the responsibility. Look to results; if those 
results are totally inadequate with a reasonable demand, 
only one thing remains, to discharge the incompetents. 
But these are only a few illustrations picked out of the 
broad field lying before us. 

But there is another use of our society, the impor- 
tance of which has before been alluded to. It is to give 
the teachers themselves the rationale of their own pro- 
fession. The conscious worker, the man who under- 
stands his own processes, is always better, the other 
things being equal, than the instinctive worker. The 
one has universal principles to guide him in unexpected 
contingencies, the other is- lost when anything unusual 
transpires. Reason is higher than Instinct. Further- 
more, the teachers are often called upon in the com- 
munity to defend that system to which they are devoting 
their lives. It is, therefore, important that they should 
not claim too little, nor what is just as bad, too much. 
The latter is the greater danger, since it seems an in- 
herent tendency in men to exaggerate the importance 
of their own particular profession. At the present time 
the cause of education is suffering more from the extrav- 



664 ^ WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX YI. 

agant demands of its friends than from all other draw- 
backs put together. If these preposterous claims were 
acceded to, they would sap the revenue of the people 
and turn the State into a pedagogical institution. The 
great want is the true limitation of educational science. 
This being firmly fixed and clearly seen, such folly 
becomes impossible. If we look over the country, we 
see in many States the most reckless expenditure of 
the public money, for purposes the most unwarrantable, 
yet all in the name of the holy cause of education. 
Even the persons who have attempted to place some 
rational limitations are hooted at as the defenders and 
promoters of ignorance. For my part, I am only afraid 
of a reaction which may sweep away some valid interest. 
But if a system be placed and held within its true 
limits, and makes no excessive irrational demands, it is 
unassailable. It is the "too much" which calls forth 
opposition, and which ought to call forth .opposition. 
Above all, therefore, the natural defenders and expos- 
itors of the Public School system should understand its 
rational limitations, and never transgress them in argu- 
ment or action. 



APPENDIX VII 

LIST OP PRINTED WORKS. 

It would seem proper for a Writer of Books to give a 
list of his printed things, in order to show his claim 
to his title, at least as far as quantity of works is con- 
cerned. Such a list has been repeatedly asked for in 
the last few years, and promised; accordingly, here it 
is in brief outline. I shall arrange chronologically every- 
thing I have printed, as far as I now remember, going 
back more than fifty years. The books which are still 
printed and in the market to-day, will be designated by 
Roman numerals: other matter by small Italic letters. 
The different editions of books will be noted under their 
proper captions. 

(a) The first printed articles were in a College Maga- 
zine, the Oberlin Students' Monthly, published while I 
was at Oberlin College. 

(&) A Translation of an article on Goethe's Faust, 
Part 2, from the German of Karl Rosenkrantz, published 
in 1867 in the Journal of Speculative Philosophy. Also 
some other translations in the tame journal (given fully 
in its index). 

(c) Paper read before the first regular meeting of the 
St. Louis Society of Pedagogy, March 25, 1872, on the 
objects of said Society, printed in the Western of June, 
1872. 

{d) Printed the drama Clarence in the Inland Monthly 
of 1873; the separate sheets specially printed were after- 
wards bound into a pamphlet. 

(e) Printed The Soul's Journey in two numbers of 
the Journal of Speculative Philosophy for 1877; sheets 
bound separately in pamphlet. 

(/) Articles on Shakespeare printed in the Western 
and in the Journal of Speculative Philosophy, from 1872 
till 1877, when they were collected, re-edited and put to- 



(665) 



QQQ A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX VII. 

gether into the following book (the first one of the 
Writer of Books) : 

I, II, III. The first title was The System of the Shake- 
spearian Drama, in two volumes (though sometimes 
bound in one), 1877. G. I. Jones & Co., publishers, St. 
Louis; no plates. 

Second edition, under a new title. The Shakespearian 
Drama, a Commentary, 1887-8, in three volumes, Trage- 
dies, Comedies, Histories, respectively, with additions. 
Several publishers, ending in the Sigma Publishing Co. 
In plates, which have not been since changed, though 
the size of the volumes and the color of the bindings 
have varied somewhat (of course, without variation of 
the text). 

IV. Delphic Days, a poem in the elegiac stanza. 
Friedrich Roeslein, 1880, in large form, no plates. 

Second edition, 1892, with numerous corrections. 
Sigma Pub. Co. 

V. A Walk in Hellas, first part printed in 1881, second 
part in 1882. At first in separate volumes, then bound 
in one. No plates. Several publishers on the different 
title pages. 

Second edition, 1892, reprint of the first edition, in 
one volume; plates. Sigma Pub. Co. 

VI. Agamemnon's Daughter (Iphigenia), a classic- 
romantic poem, 1885, small form. - 

Second edition, 1892, with corrections and additions; 
large form, three verses to the page. Sigma Pub. Co. 

In the same year (1885) Epigrammatic Voyage was' 
printed separately, but afterwards incorporated in 
Prorsus Retrorsus, of which it was originally a part. 

VII. VIII. Goethe's Faust, a Commentary, 1886, in two 
volumes, corresponding to the two parts of the original 
poem. No plates. Several publishers. 

Second edition, 1896, with additions. Plates. Sigma 
Pub. Co. 

IX. Homer's Iliad, a Commentary, 1887. The first 
form was a series of essays in Journal of Speculative 
Philosophy, which were collected in this first edition. 

Second edition, 1897, with a preliminary essay on the 



LIST OF PRINTED WORKS. QQ^ 

Literai'5^ Bibles and an appendix. Plates. Sigma 
Pub. Co. 

X. The FreeMtrgers, a novel, 1889. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XI. Homer in Chios, 1891, an epopee in hexameter. 
Sigma Pub. Co. 

XII. Prorsus Retrosus, 1892, an itinerary in classic 
lands in elegiac stanza. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XIII. Dante's Divine Comedy — Inferno, 1892. Sigma 
Pub. Co . 

XIV. Dante's Divine Comedy — Purgatorio and Para- 
diso, 1893. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XV. World's Fair Studies, written and published first 
in the form of pamphlets during the Chicago World's 
Fair, 1893, by the Chicago Kindergarten College. Col- 
lected and published with considerable additions in 1895. 
Sigma Pub. Co. 

XVI. Johnny Appleseed's Rhymes, hy Theophilus Mid- 
dling, 1894. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XVII. FroeheVs Mother Play-Songs, a Commentary, 
1895. Sigma Pub. Co. Second edition, with additions, 
1901. 

XVIII. Psychology and the Psychosis Intellect, 1896, 
Sigma Pub. Co. 

XIX. Homer's Odyssey, a Commentary, 1897. Sigma 
Pub. Co. 

XX. The Will and Its World, psychical and ethical, 
1899. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXI. Life of Frederick Froeheh Founder of the Kin- 
dergarten, 1900. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXII. Psychology of Froebel's Play-Gifts, 1900. Sigma 
Pub. Co. 

XXIII. Social Institutions, in Their Origin, Growth 
and Interconnection, 1901. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXIV. The State, Specially the American State, 1902. 
Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXV. Ancient European Philosophy — the History of 
Greek Philosophy Psychologically Treated, 1903. Sigma 
Pub. Co. 



ggg A WRITER OF BOOKS— APPENDIX VII. 

XXVI. Modern Europemi Philosophy — The History of 
Modern Philosophy Psychologically Treated, 1904. Sigma 
Pub. Co. 

XXVII. Architecture, as a branch of Aesthetic, 1905. 
Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXVIII. Feeling with Prolegamena, 1905. Sigma 
Pub. Co. 

XXIX. The American Ten Years' War (1855-1865), 
1906. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXX. The Father of History — Herodotus, 1907. Sigma 
Pub. Co. 

XXXI. A Tour in Europe, 1907. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXXII. European History, chiefly ancient, in its pro- 
cesses, 1908. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXXIII. Abraham Lincoln, an Interpretation in Biog- 
raphy, 1908. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXXIV. Cosmos and Diacosmos. The Processes of 
Nature psychologically treated, 1909. Sigma Pub. Co. 

XXXV. A Writer of Books, in his Genesis, 1910. Sigma- 
Pub. Co. 



31^77-9 



